The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  I glance at her, my eyebrows raised in a question mark.

  ‘Cash,’ she explains, ‘so it won’t show up on his credit card statement. I bet his wife goes through it with a fine-tooth comb.’

  She’s probably right. But I know she isn’t standing here just to pass on her nineteen years’ worth of accumulated wisdom on the perfidy of the male sex. It’s twenty past five and she’s hoping I’ll let her leave early. She’s got a party to go to. Or a date to get dressed up for. Whereas all I’ve got to look forward to is . . . but I don’t want to finish that thought.

  He’s arriving today.

  ‘You can go if you like,’ I say, putting her out of her misery.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she replies, acting all wide-eyed and innocent as if the idea hadn’t even occurred to her.

  I like Kerry Anne, she’s hard-working and sweet-tempered, but sometimes her tendency to believe she can twist me round her little finger is trying. Or am I being over-sensitive? Perhaps most girls her age are equally patronizing to any woman over thirty.

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine.’ And I give her a smile to show that I mean it. ‘You get off, I can manage on my own.’

  Unexpectedly, instead of dashing for her coat she lingers for a while longer, pretending to tidy the ribbons but actually just moving them aimlessly around the counter. She has something else on her mind but can’t quite bring herself to say the words. She worries on her bottom lip, chewing off the lipstick, before finally finding the courage to speak.

  ‘Is Marc picking you up tonight?’

  There’s an attempt at casualness but she doesn’t even get close. Her voice emerges with a mouse-like squeak. Kerry Anne has a crush the size of Mount Everest on my husband, a tormenting all-consuming passion that sends her cheeks into a blaze of scarlet every time he comes into the shop.

  Recalling similar unrequited loves of my teenage years, I feel a wave of pity. For I’m in no doubt at all that her passion will never be reciprocated. This, of course, is not through any notion of fidelity on Marc’s part but because, with her short stature, plump build, mousy hair and freckles, she is simply not his type.

  However, he does nothing to discourage her attentions. In fact the very opposite. Not willing to shun the egotistical pleasure of being worshipped, he revels in her gauche adoration, throwing her small compliments like scraps to a hungry puppy.

  It’s kind of sad to watch.

  ‘No, not tonight,’ I say kindly, setting her free to leave with no regrets.

  She smiles and blushes simultaneously, her hopeless infatuation battling with her conscience, for Kerry Anne is fond of me and her love for my husband makes her feel guilty. Quickly, she goes through to the back to retrieve her coat and bag, and seconds later after a hasty ‘See you then!’ she’s whirled through the shop and out through the exit.

  ‘Have a nice time,’ I call out but I’m talking to the air.

  Which leaves me alone with my thoughts again.

  Fortunately there’s a steady but not too demanding flow of customers over the next forty minutes, most of them buying bundles of brightly berried holly or optimistic sprigs of mistletoe. The red poinsettias, of which I’m not enamoured, are also popular, maybe as last-minute presents for almost-forgotten elderly aunts. The wrapping and serving keeps me busy until the clock reaches six, when I bring in the outside containers and close up.

  I take my time, not really wanting to go home. Not yet. I don’t want to leave my haven. I don’t want to go and meet the man who has only today got out of prison, the man who disturbs the unflappable Dee, the man who I suspect is bringing a bucketload of trouble to the Buckley household.

  It’s as I’m cashing up that I recall again the brown paper parcel in Dee’s kitchen. After we’d said our goodnights it was several minutes before I realized I’d forgotten the milk. When I went back down the light was off and there was no sign of her. I took a pint from the well-stocked fridge and was turning to go when I spotted the package sitting on a shelf alongside the jars of tea and coffee. I might have ignored it if one corner hadn’t been torn open and there inside, clear to see, were several large bundles of used twenty-pound notes. Money from the club perhaps, waiting to be banked – but surely that would be in the safe? And why was it so neatly wrapped?

  No, this was something else.

  Cautiously, glancing first over my shoulder to make sure I was alone, I stood on my toes and investigated more closely. I drew a quick breath. At a rough estimate there was about five thousand there. What was it doing left carelessly on the kitchen shelf? I examined the outside of the parcel. Across the middle, scrawled in large block capitals, was the name Jim Buckley and in the top right-hand corner the instruction, ‘By hand.’

  A delivery then. Some kind of payment. But what for? And who from?

  Only one name sprang to mind.

  But maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Although, on the other hand, the arrival of a large sum of money closely followed by the arrival of Mr Frank was surely a coincidence too far.

  I place the day’s takings in the safe, a healthy sum that should please even the disgruntled Dee. Then I put on my coat, set the alarm and lock the door. Outside the temperature seems to have dropped another five degrees. I consider waiting for a bus but seeing the snarled-up traffic decide my chances of freezing to death will be slightly reduced by walking.

  Briskly I set off in the direction of home. By now an icy rain is falling and the snow beneath my feet has dissolved to a grey unpleasant slush. I think while I walk, wondering about the money again. There could be other reasons. A loan? Some dodgy deal? Drugs? No, not drugs. Although I’ve never been naive enough to presume that Jim is whiter than white, he’d never get involved in drugs. Not after all Carl’s problems.

  Which brings me back, full circle, to Johnny Frank.

  I’d like to delay my return as long as possible but the cold propels me forward and I cover the distance in a respectable twenty-five minutes. Very quietly I open the front door, hoping to slip inside, dash up the stairs and grab a hot shower before the inevitable and unwelcome introductions. But I’m barely on the second step before Jim has stumbled from the living room and shouted loud enough for everyone to hear: ‘Simone, love! Come in. Come in.’

  Damn!

  ‘Er, Jim, look – I’m soaked,’ I reply, dripping the evidence on to the hall carpet. ‘I was just going to . . .’

  But with the insistent determination of the drunk, he takes a few steps forward and grabs my arm. His warm whisky breath assails my face. ‘Come and meet Johnny!’

  And so, feeling like the lamb to the slaughter, I’m dragged into the midst of the smoky gathering. I’m not sure how long the party has been going on although the scattering of empty bottles and full ashtrays would suggest more than a few hours. The room has that careless feel, as if inhibitions, along with all formalities, have long been shed.

  With Jim still firmly attached to my elbow, I acknowledge the presence of Dee, Marc, his younger brother Carl and Carl’s girlfriend Melanie, before my gaze finally and uneasily comes to rest on the infamous stranger. He looks up and courteously rises from his chair to greet me.

  I’ve only a few seconds to absorb some fleeting impressions. He’s tall, that’s the first thing I notice, almost the same height as Marc – but leaner and older. On the wrong side of fifty and resigned to it. Grey. His hair is grey. His eyes are grey too. Even his lips, tight and thin, hold a hint of dull silver. His pale face is almost ascetic, the cheekbones sharp as razor blades. There’s nothing especially ugly or handsome about him; he occupies that neutral middle ground, that ambiguous position that can slip one way or another, dependent perhaps only on a look or a smile.

  So this is Johnny Frank.

  So this is the no-good, low-life, murdering bastard.

  ‘This is Marc’s wife, Simone,’ Jim slurs, releasing my arm in time for me to shake the outstretched hand. ‘Marc’s wife,’ he repeats as if my identity is entirely reliant on my connection
to his son.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, attempting a smile as his long cool fingers close firmly around mine. My heartbeat quickens a little. It’s not every day you get to meet a killer.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you too, Simone,’ he replies.

  I bristle at the deliberate repetition of my name, an affectation he probably believes to be charming but which I only find irritating. His voice though is surprisingly easy on the ear, soft and lilting, the accent holding hints of Scottish origins.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask a little stupidly, saying the first thing that comes into my head. Are there rules of etiquette for addressing a man who has just served eighteen years in prison?

  He smiles back. ‘Very well, thank you.’

  For a few seconds following this mundane exchange there is silence in the room. Whether this is down to a faux pas on my part or just a general fascination with every word and action of our guest is hard to ascertain. Whatever the cause everyone suddenly stands up and congregates around us. A glass of wine is thrust into my hand and responsibility for small talk effectively removed.

  ‘So, do you remember . . .’

  ‘Hey, whatever happened to . . .’

  The next five minutes dissolve into a blur of muddled chat and reminiscence. I stand there, grinning inanely and sipping the wine. The rain is seeping down my back. I shift from foot to foot, cold and wet and uncomfortable. All I want to do is get away. I glance at Marc – but he’s too busy staring at Johnny. Everyone’s looking at Johnny. Even Dee seems to be disguising her enmity. Although there’s still a slight brittleness, she’s standing close to him, laughing and joking, her hand reaching out for his arm, her honeyed friendly words a far cry from her accusations a few nights before.

  What’s going on?

  I hover for a while longer before depositing my glass on a table and slipping quietly out of the room. No one seems to notice. Upstairs, I strip off my clothes and take a long hot shower. I raise my face to the water and close my eyes. I try not to brood on what is going on downstairs – but of course that is all I can do. I soap my skin and try to scrub it away. I turn the radio on loud. I try to forget it. I can’t. Even as I wrap the towel around me, as I get dressed again in faded jeans and T-shirt, it’s still firmly ingrained on my mind.

  And there’s a stone in my stomach, a feeling of dread that I just can’t shake.

  I would like to stay where I am, to huddle in front of the TV – it’s been a long hard day and my legs are aching – but know I have to do my social duty. This is Jim and Dee’s house and I must show due respect to their guest.

  As I re-enter the room I find that seats have been resumed and I perch on the sofa next to Marc. I don’t choose this place because it’s next to my husband but because it’s the furthest spot from the two people I least want to talk to – Johnny and Carl.

  They are occupying adjacent armchairs by the window overlooking the garden, and I see Johnny’s eyes rise from time to time to glance at what is currently a bleak and sodden landscape. Only the bank of cyclamen under the old beech tree provides a flash of colour. Perhaps it’s these tiny flowers that continuously draw his gaze or maybe it’s the sheer novelty of having any kind of view at all. If he is thrilled, however, he doesn’t show it. His grey face has an almost expressionless quality. Even when he smiles, as he’s doing now, it goes no further than his mouth, his eyes retaining their icy coldness.

  It would be a bad idea, I think, to get on the wrong side of Johnny Frank.

  Carl is regaling him with some tale of a friend in Parkhurst. ‘Terry Randall, you know, George Randall’s son, lives on the Roman Road. You must have heard of George?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’

  But as if he must eventually be impressed by this rather weak link to the world of criminality, Carl persists: ‘Well, Terry went down for a blag three years ago. That bank job on Old Street. We used to knock around together . . .’

  And Carl is determined to impress. Like a more desperate version of Kerry Anne, but without any of her endearing qualities, he’s almost licking Johnny’s boots. His eyes are excitedly bright although whether this is from the thrill of having a real-life villain in the house, an effect of the alcohol, or the result of some other uplifting substance is impossible to tell. As if he’s got ants in his pants he’s squirming from side to side and talking incessantly.

  I wonder if Johnny is even listening.

  I don’t like Carl. And by that I don’t mean that I mildly dislike him. No, it’s much stronger than that. He induces a feeling that borders on revulsion. Part of it may be down to what his ex-wife Gena has told me but truth is I felt the same way from the moment I met him.

  Marc’s brother is twenty-six, nine years younger than my husband, and although of equal height and build and with the same blue eyes, that’s pretty much where the similarity ends. Carl’s hair is straight, the colour of barley, and his lips are like Jim’s, wide and fleshy. Some might call his mouth sensual but I see only petulance in its pout. He’s conceited and selfish. Which isn’t to say he can’t be charming because, like Marc, he can enchant the most perceptive of people, but beneath the surface lies a streak of sadistic cruelty. He was the kind of child, I imagine, who tortured kittens.

  Which is probably why he’s so attracted to Johnny, a man who has crossed the line into that darker place, the place that as yet is just the subject of Carl’s dreams.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Dee squeezing on to the sofa and giving me a brief, if drunken, interrogation on the day’s events. ‘So how did it go, sweetheart? Did that delivery arrive from Murphy’s? Did the wreaths for the Parker funeral go out okay?’

  But she’s only going through the motions, not even pretending to listen to the answers. Even as I reply she’s already looking round the room, searching for something more, waiting to spot an empty glass to top up so she can pour herself a fresh one too.

  I’m going easy on the booze, still sipping my first drink. I’ve got work tomorrow and the heady scent of flowers doesn’t mix well with a throbbing head and a gut turning somersaults.

  As quickly as she arrived, Dee takes off again, flitting over to sit beside Melanie. I know little of Carl’s latest acquisition apart from the obvious, that she’s a dumb but rather striking blonde – with terrible taste in men. But I can hardly talk. Marc isn’t exactly the catch of the century. And as I’ve barely exchanged more than half a dozen words with her, there’s perhaps just a touch of the green-eyed monster in my judgement, for there’s no denying that with her slim waist and bounteous cleavage she comes close to the male ideal of Barbie-doll perfection.

  I resolve to put aside my first impressions and to make the effort, when I’m feeling less tired, to be nicer. Truth is, I really miss Gena – especially at times like these. As the two outsiders we formed an alliance that saw us through the worst. Together, we could laugh our way through anything. Well, at least until Carl . . .

  I don’t blame her for leaving.

  As if she has died, Gena’s name is rarely mentioned now. And if some reference has to be made, for divorce proceedings are still slowly stumbling through their endless machinations, Dee only ever calls her The Bitch. Never, however, deliberately within my hearing, for despite my preference for a quiet life this is a subject over which we have almost come to blows. Across the kitchen, we have narrowed our eyes and glared at each other. And raised our voices. And moved close enough to smell each other’s angry breath.

  ‘Don’t ever call her that again,’ I demand.

  ‘It’s my poor son who’s the victim,’ she screeches back.

  ‘Oh, right, and it’s your poor son who . . .’

  And things might have gone further, much further, if Jim hadn’t crucially interposed his bulk between us and cried: ‘Stop it! Stop it!’

  But all that was over six months ago.

  Dee’s loyalty to Carl is understandable but her refusal to nudge even vaguely towards the truth is harder to accept. I’
m willing to respect her maternal love but can never collude in her crazily misplaced contempt and accusations.

  The only victim in this unholy mess is Gena. And she’s got the scars to prove it.

  But back to the present. Jim is now strolling round the room, loudly proclaiming the death of the East End in a muddled diatribe involving Asians, Oswald Mosley, and the betrayal of the government. No one appears to be paying attention but that doesn’t deter him. Although he long ago moved out of the area and into the leafy suburbs of Essex, Jim retains a sentimental picture of the slum he once fought so hard to escape from.

  ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ Carl eventually exclaims, ‘don’t start all that rubbish again! Diphtheria, outside bogs, bloody starvation – what was so great about all that?’

  Jim retorts: ‘You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.’

  And Melanie, hoping perhaps to divert from this magical family exchange or just completely oblivious to it, pipes up in her little-girl voice: ‘Carl darling, you couldn’t get me another drinky, could you?’

  Which has the effect, at least, of temporarily silencing everyone.

  I glance surreptitiously at my watch. Hopefully, with my duty done, I can make my escape before too long. Before everything turns sour. For even without the added bonus of Johnny Frank’s ominous presence, I hate these family gatherings. All too often they descend into futile bickering and recriminations. Already the atmosphere is starting to shift, the earlier good-hearted tipsiness slipping into harder-edged inebriation.

  Wearily, I lean my head against Marc’s shoulder. I’ve seen it all a thousand times before. Are they a dysfunctional family? I have no idea. My own experience of family life is pretty limited and I guess I have seen both better and worse examples.

  Glancing up as Melanie repeats her request I accidentally catch Johnny’s eye. For the first time I see a glimmer of humour in his expression although I can’t decide whether this is genuine amusement or something bordering on hysteria. Of all the places in the world, why on earth has he chosen to come here? Perhaps I should do a bit of digging.