The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  They must have struggled, just the two of them. Eddie wasn’t a big man but he would still have been, quite literally, a dead weight. And I know how that feels, not to mention the heart-thumping dread of discovery, the fuck-awful fear that churns up your guts and turns your legs to lead. No, it can’t have been easy. But then Dee’s determination, for all her faults, has never been a matter for debate. Once she’s set her mind to something (as I’ve discovered to my cost) it would take a bloody army to prevent her going through with it.

  So now The Palace has seen two deaths. Who says lightning never strikes twice? Although maybe there have been others. Maybe there’s a veritable host of ghosts stumbling round those dusty corridors.

  Dee stubs out her cigarette and instantly lights another. We’re approaching the final stages of this unsavoury recital. ‘Carl took his, Eddie’s, car and I followed in mine. We drove around for a while. We . . . we weren’t sure where to go.’

  I could see that might be a problem. It’s not the kind of information you can check out in the Yellow Pages.

  ‘After twenty minutes or so we ended up in Dalston Lane, took a left and then . . . I don’t remember the name of the road.’ She glances at Carl but he shrugs indifferently. ‘It was quiet anyway, and dark. There weren’t any lights on in the houses. Carl parked the car – then he got into mine and we left.’

  There’s a long silence.

  Dee sighs, perhaps out of weariness or perhaps simply out of relief that the telling is finally over. She takes a moment and then raises her eyes to look at me again. What can I say? It seems pretty slipshod but then I’m hardly an expert at disposing of bodies.

  So I ask the obvious: ‘What about prints? What about—’

  For the first time the little bastard deigns to opens his mouth. As if it’s a matter of personal pride, an attack on his professionalism, he says, ‘I was wearing gloves, man. I didn’t leave any prints.’

  It’s a good thing Dee’s here. Just the sound of his smug careless voice makes me want to explode. I can feel the rage growing inside me, the almost irresistible temptation to continue where we left off this morning. She senses my shift forward and quickly intervenes.

  ‘We were careful,’ she says, laying a restraining hand on my arm.

  She’s bringing that word we into it again, deflecting the focus away from Carl, reminding me that she played a part in all this too. But for all her attempts to share the blame, I know she wasn’t responsible for what happened; she was just the one left to pick up the pieces. Still, it’s hardly going to help if I take the vicious sprog and shake him till his brains fall out – attractive as that prospect is – so instead I nod, force my muscles to relax, and slowly lean back.

  Carl grins as if he’s gained a minor victory.

  I shoot him a cold icy glare. So okay, maybe now is neither the time nor the place – there’s more important shit to worry about – but one day he’ll get what’s coming and if I can’t express that threat through speech, I can certainly convey it in pictures. I put my right hand on the table and curl my fingers into a hard tight fist.

  He sees the gesture all right, pales and looks towards his mama. But no joy there: she’s got her face stuck firmly in her glass.

  And I’m not finished yet. ‘What about the rest?’ I ask provocatively. Now I’m staring straight into his eyes. ‘You think you left nothing behind? What about the hairs, the skin, the blood? I mean, there was a struggle, wasn’t there? There was a fight. You must have heard of science, Carl. Eddie’s body must be crawling with your DNA.’

  He falters, a quiver invading his wide sulky mouth. I’ve hit him where it hurts. He stares down at his feet. It’s not as though he’s ashamed or disgusted by what he’s done – far from it – he’s only afraid of the consequences. Dee, as usual, rushes to his rescue.

  ‘He’s never been arrested. He’s never . . . he’s not even had a test, so unless they’ve got a reason to suspect him, why should they come looking?’

  I frown, shrugging her objections aside. ‘Well . . .’ I don’t want to let him off the hook so easily. I want him to sweat, to think about it.

  Although she’s right – to a point. It doesn’t matter how much DNA they retrieve if they haven’t got a match for it, a suspect. So long as no one saw them, so long as no one saw the car, so long as no one knew about the connection to Eddie, so long as Carl never makes the same mistake again . . .

  Dee repeats, ‘Why should they?’

  There’s an answer to that although I’m not about to say it: Because your son’s a fucking psycho. Because his brains are so far up his arse he can’t see sense for shit. Even with Dee covering his tracks, I can’t quite believe he hasn’t left a trail of evidence. And even if he hasn’t, even if by some freak chance he’s managed to get away with it, how long before his crazy braggart mouth runs riot?

  I don’t want to be here when that happens.

  Ignoring her question, I ask one of my own: ‘So how’s Jim? How’s he dealing with this?’

  Carl snorts. ‘How do you think?’ The gin’s getting to him now, giving him false courage. While Dee’s around he knows he’s safe. ‘He’s off his head. He’s fucking freaked.’

  She throws him a look, a warning glance. ‘Jim’s okay,’ she says, turning her attention back to me. ‘He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He just needs a bit of space.’

  Which tells me everything. I can’t help smiling. And although my instincts keep insisting I should leave tonight, cut my losses, pack my bags and run, I can’t resist the temptation of seeing Jim suffer. At least for a day or two. Why not? I’ve waited eighteen fucking years for the pleasure.

  And yeah, of course it isn’t smart; if the cops come calling I won’t stand a chance. They’ll hang me out to dry. They’ll dig my grave for me. But if all goes tits-up they’ll be doing that anyway so I might as well enjoy myself in the meantime.

  Maybe I’m heading for trouble – but hell, it’s hardly a novelty.

  Chapter Eleven

  Simone

  God alone knows what’s wrong with Marc; moody isn’t the word for it. He’s acting like a bear with a sore head and if it wasn’t for the fact that he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol I’d suspect he had a lingering hangover. I’ve tried to talk to him but the more questions I ask the more defensive he gets. I’ve tried kind, persuasive and even downright stroppy, but without any noticeable success.

  Then late this evening, just as I’m starting to wonder if he’s embarked on a terminal mid-life crisis, he finds his voice again. ‘I think we should go to Spain, Sims.’

  My heart sinks. Now this is a conversation that I don’t want to have. ‘Mm,’ I murmur vaguely, turning on the TV in the hope of distracting him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ As if I’ve just set the timer for a nuclear device, he leaps forward and grabs the remote. In a second the screen has dissolved into darkness again.

  I stare at him, bemused. ‘The news is on.’

  ‘So what? I’m sick of the news. What’s the point? It’s always the same.’ He leans forward, putting his head in his hands. He rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. He glances at me, ‘Sorry. Sorry, but it’s all so . . .’ He rubs his forehead and sighs. ‘Can’t we just talk?’

  Which is pretty rich seeing as he’s the one who appeared to have taken a vow of silence. But I nod anyway. At least he’s trying to communicate and, much as I dread the idea, this is probably as good a time as ever to make my position clear on the whole expatriate venture. I take a deep breath. ‘Look, I understand what this Spain thing means to you, a new future, the chance to start again but I’m really not sure if—’

  He doesn’t give me a chance to finish. ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ he insists. ‘We won’t know, will we, until we give it a chance? That’s why we should take a trip, check it out, get away for a week or two.’ His eyes are shining now, almost crazily bright. He jumps off the sofa, walks over to the window, and back. ‘Sims, we should go this weekend. We shou
ld go on Friday. No, we should go tomorrow. I’m sure I can get some cheap flights off the Net.’

  Tomorrow? Friday? This is madness. What’s he talking about? I flail around for an excuse. ‘But we can’t . . . what about the shop, what about Dee, what—’

  Marc leans over and wraps his arms around my shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort that out. She’ll understand. Mum won’t mind. I mean, when was the last time we had a holiday?’ His warm breath whispers against my neck. ‘Please.’ He pauses, gently kissing the top of my head. And then suddenly there’s a tremor in his voice. ‘Please, Sims.’

  I hear the plea and my hand reaches automatically for his. I turn to him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He twists my fingers round his, linking them in that old familiar way.

  ‘Marc?’

  At first he won’t even look at me but gradually he raises his gaze. His expression has changed; it seems almost bereft. He slides his tongue cautiously along his dry lips. There’s a short brittle silence and I think for a second that he might talk, that for once in his life he might actually share what he’s thinking. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He only shakes his head and smiles. ‘It’s nothing.’

  And then he’s broken free. He’s off again, pacing round the room. He’s done three brisk circuits before he stops by the window, flinging it wide open to let in a blast of freezing winter air. He breathes it in like a dying man desperate for oxygen. Then he starts to laugh. ‘Yeah, come on. Let’s do it. Let’s go get some sun. Let’s get away from here.’

  I don’t have the heart to say no. I could claim my courage has failed me but it’s more than that. Guilt has kicked in too. He’s behaving so strangely – even by his standards – that I’m starting to wonder if it’s down to some kind of depression. Marc has always had his moods but this is different; perhaps it’s a form of post-prison blues. There’s an edge to him, a kind of mania. It’s like he’s poised on the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone to push him off.

  And I don’t want to be the one to do it.

  I join him by the window. ‘Okay.’ I gaze down into the garden. I get the feeling he was looking at something, at someone, but there’s only drab emptiness now. I slip my arm around his waist. ‘But maybe next week rather than this one, huh? At least give me time to buy a pair of shades.’

  Smiling, he leans down and skims his lips against my throat. ‘You can get those at the airport.’ I mean to protest but he stops me with another kiss. ‘Come on. Say yes.’ He assails me softly, butterfly kisses leading all the way to my mouth. ‘Let’s get out of here, let’s get away.’

  ‘Marc . . .’

  I should stop it but I don’t. I should know better but . . .

  I wake early in the morning. Marc is still asleep and I lie for a few minutes watching his chest rise and fall, listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing. In the early days of our marriage it was something I often used to do, filled with a vague feeling of astonishment that this smart sexy guy was actually my husband. Now what do I feel? An enduring affection, I suppose. A kind of love. A desire not to see him hurt.

  Carefully, I slip from under the covers, grab my clothes from the chair and tiptoe into the bathroom. It’s the first night in a while that he’s slept peacefully and I don’t want to wake him. Although, if I’m being honest, it isn’t a completely selfless act; I’m hoping to escape before he starts planning that holiday again.

  I brush my teeth, take a quick shower and towel myself dry. Then, wiping the mist from the mirror, I run a comb through my hair and gaze at my reflection. Not the most encouraging sight in the world. I could swear those frown lines are getting deeper. In less than eight years I’ll be forty. Lord, that’s not a thought to dwell on. Delving into my make-up bag, I make an attempt if not to repair then at least distract from nature’s damage – a little shadow on the eyes, blusher, a smudge of lipstick.

  I pull on jeans and a jumper and wander into the living room. By now I’m craving a cup of tea but best not to hang around. He could wake up any moment. There’s a cafe on the corner of the High Street where I can pick up a takeaway cuppa and a roll.

  I lift my jacket from the peg and throw it over my arm before cautiously opening the front door. I pause, listening intently, but there’s still no sound from the bedroom. The click as I close it behind me sounds as loud as gunfire in the silence of the morning. I wince, holding my breath, and then, like an embarrassed lover creeping away from a drunken assignation, slink quietly down the stairs.

  I’m almost out of the house when I glance back and see Jim sitting in the kitchen. He’s noticed me so I give him a wave. ‘Morning.’

  I’m hoping that will suffice but he raises a pair of bleary eyes and shouts loud enough to wake the dead: ‘What happened to Marc last night? He was supposed to be at work.’

  Reluctantly, if only to get him to lower his voice, I walk along the hall. ‘Was he?’

  ‘Damn right, he was,’ Jim insists. ‘We’ve got a bloody business to run. What does he think, that he can just stroll in and out whenever he feels like it?’

  I shrug. I’ve no idea what Marc thinks at the best of times. Although I do know he’s not a shirker; he hasn’t missed an evening’s work since he started the job.

  ‘At some bloody poker game, I suppose,’ he grumbles.

  There’s a bottle of whisky on the table and an empty glass. The smell of booze drifts through the air. How drunk is he? It’s hard to tell. All I am sure of is that Jim, never abstemious at the best of times, currently seems to be drinking for Britain.

  ‘No. He was with me, actually.’

  ‘Ah, the perfect alibi,’ a soft voice declares.

  I swing round to see Johnny standing there. He must have been in the living room. Aware that he’s surprised me, his mouth slides into a thin knowing smile. ‘Good morning, Simone. And how are you today?’

  I nod, instinctively taking a step back. ‘Fine, thank you.’

  He hears the stiffness in my tone and stares at me for a few seconds longer than he should. Then, just as I’m starting to enter the zone of high discomfort, he glances away towards Jim. He sighs, taking in the bottle and his general state of dishevelment. ‘You’ve forgotten,’ he says.

  Jim looks up and frowns. ‘Uh?’ I don’t know how many Johnny Franks he sees but possibly more than one for he instantly lowers his head and rubs his eyes before raising them again. His earlier belligerence has suddenly slipped into confusion.

  Johnny sighs again. ‘You were supposed to be giving me a lift.’

  That Johnny ever goes out is news to me but then I’m hardly up to date on the latest headlines. Looking more closely at him now, I see that he’s washed and shaved and even wearing a tie. I’m curious, but not so curious that I want to prolong the encounter.

  I glance at my watch. ‘Well, I’d better be going.’

  I’m just about to retreat when Jim, drunkenly inspired, drops the bombshell. ‘Ah,’ he announces triumphantly, ‘Simone’s going that way. She can drive you.’

  Simone can what?

  ‘Sorry,’ I say hurriedly, ‘but I’m on the bus. Marc may need the car later.’

  Jim ponders on this, then slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. For a second he stares at them as if he’s not quite sure how they got into his hand but then, hit by a wave of clarity, he smiles and slides them across the table. ‘Take mine, love. I won’t be needing it.’

  There’s one of those long awkward pauses where, although I’m well and truly stymied, I still frantically struggle to find another excuse.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Johnny says brusquely, ‘I’ll get a cab.’

  I’m sorely tempted to let him – his company’s the last thing I need this morning – but there’s such obvious irritation in his voice that I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for Jim. For all the talk of them being old friends I don’t really believe it; there’s no love lost between these two. And I, for one, wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of the c
hilly Mr Frank.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I reply, forcing a smile. I lean forward and pick up the keys. Through the years Jim has been decent to me and now it’s payback time. ‘See you later,’ I say to him, ‘and don’t forget to tell Dee.’ There’s only one parking space attached to the shop and she’ll be far from impressed if she has to leave her own car on a meter.

  He grunts in reply, his hand reaching out for the bottle.

  I’m halfway down the hall before I sense that my passenger isn’t following. I glance over my shoulder to see him still standing by the kitchen door. ‘Johnny?’

  ‘I told you,’ he says icily, ‘I’ll get a cab.’

  A shiver runs through me. No, I’m not leaving them alone together. Jim’s barely capable of standing up, never mind facing the wrath of Johnny. I glance at my watch again. ‘Well, I hope you haven’t got a pressing appointment because it’s almost eight o’clock and your chances of getting a cab in the next half hour are about a million to one.’

  It seems to hit the right nerve. For the first time ever, I see him falter, his gaze flickering down to his own watch. Wherever he has to be, it must be important. He looks from me to Jim and back again. Eventually, he nods. He gives Jim one last glare of disgust before heading for the door.

  Silently, we get into the car. We’ve passed along the drive and through the gates before he speaks to me again. ‘I’m going to Grove Street.’

  ‘Okay.’ I remember where it is, a thin winding road off the High Street, but I’ve rarely been down it. Who could he be visiting there? One of his old pals perhaps, an old friend, an old villain who he would like to see again. From what I can recall, there’s only a scattering of shops and offices, a few houses and flats . . .

  I’ve spent a minute or two considering the possibilities when his voice cuts abruptly across my thoughts. ‘Why don’t you just ask?’

  ‘What?’

  He snorts. ‘It’s a simple question.’ Taking a small leather pouch from his pocket he picks out some tobacco and starts to roll one of his skinny cigarettes. ‘If you want to know why I’m going to Grove Street, why don’t you just ask?’