The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  ‘I don’t,’ I retort too quickly. ‘Why should I?’ Even to my own ears it doesn’t sound convincing.

  He dampens the paper with a fast lick across his tongue and then seals it. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  I shrug. ‘Whatever.’

  As he raises the cigarette to his lips, I notice the nasty scrape across his knuckles. How did he do that? The skin’s swollen and bruised, blue around the edges. I’m so busy staring that I don’t notice the traffic slowing in front and almost bash straight into the rear end of a very flash Mercedes. Braking just in time, I stop with only a few inches to spare. The driver turns his head and glares at me. I smile apologetically.

  Johnny laughs. ‘Who are you trying to kill – me or him?’

  I turn and glower. ‘What happened to your hand?’

  His laughter quickly fades. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like you’ve been in a fight.’

  Now suddenly he’s the one on the defensive. ‘Does it?’ He frowns but doesn’t deny the allegation. He glances down and flexes his fingers.

  The traffic’s moving again. We shift slowly forward, passing over the crossroads, before coming to another grinding halt. I wind down the window and peer ahead; there’s a tailback but I can’t see the cause. There could have been an accident or it might just be the usual rush-hour chaos. Whatever the reason, I’m still stuck in a jam with a man who sets my nerves on edge.

  He looks at me. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

  I shake my head. ‘God knows. When do you need to be there?’

  ‘Eight thirty,’ he says.

  I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s only quarter past. ‘You’ve got time. You could walk it from here.’

  But he doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he sits back, draws on his cigarette and stares out through the window. We sit in silence, the minutes ticking slowly by, until he speaks again. ‘If you really want to know, I’m seeing my probation officer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Somehow that wasn’t what I expected to hear.

  He smiles drily. ‘Life is full of obligations.’

  I should have guessed. He’s on life licence, of course he is. He killed a man. For a while at least, he’ll have to check in every couple of weeks. Even Marc had to jump through the hoops when he finally got his parole. I glance at him. ‘Sorry.’ Although God knows why I’m apologizing; it’s not my fault that he’s in the place he is.

  ‘So what did you think I was doing, robbing a bank?’

  I ignore the question, looking at his hand again. ‘They won’t be too impressed with that.’

  ‘How’s Marc?’ he retorts.

  I narrow my eyes and stare at him. ‘He’s fine. Why shouldn’t he be?’

  He shrugs. And I get that weird fluttery sensation in the pit of my stomach, the feeling that something is oh so very wrong. I open my mouth to ask again but quickly bite my tongue – I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  The vehicle in front has started to move off. I keep my distance, unwilling to scare the driver any more than I already have. I hate negotiating busy traffic. And it’s made even more stressful by driving a car that doesn’t belong to me.

  It’s almost eight twenty-five by the time we reach the High Street. As we come adjacent to the shop he says, ‘You can drop me off here.’

  I pull into the parking space. ‘Are you sure? I can always—’

  ‘No, this’ll do.’

  He unfastens his seatbelt. He’s halfway out when he turns to look at me again. I’m sure he’s going to say ‘Thanks’ or ‘See you later’ or any of those usual banal niceties. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a single word. He just smiles, closes the door and walks away.

  ‘Who was that?’ Kerry Anne asks, before I’ve had time to hang up my coat. I arrived to find her standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him,’ she says, staring out of the window.

  I follow her gaze but he’s long gone. ‘Oh, just an old friend of Jim’s. He needed a lift. Why are you here so early?’

  ‘It’s not that early,’ she replies. Which is true, although it’s still thirty minutes before she usually starts work. ‘What’s his name?’

  I frown. An uncomfortable car ride with Johnny followed by an interrogation from Kerry Anne isn’t the ideal start to a day. ‘What’s with the twenty questions?’

  ‘I just wondered,’ she says but her eyes continue to scrutinize me.

  Forcing a laugh I reply, ‘Well, how about wandering over to the kettle and making a cup of tea instead. I’m parched. You do that and I’ll start sorting the deliveries.’

  She makes a quiet huffing sound in the back of her throat before her mouth slips into a prim thin line. ‘If that’s what you want.’ Flouncing into the kitchen, she clatters the mugs down and slams the fridge door.

  What on earth is wrong with everyone? Marc’s manic, Jim’s permanently drunk, and Dee’s so irritable you can barely talk to her without getting your head bitten off. Carl’s got the sulks; something to do with Melanie, I think. And now even Kerry Anne’s behaving oddly.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, when she returns.

  She almost hurls the mug down in front of me. Some of the tea slops out and spills over the counter. ‘I’m okay,’ she stresses. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Because you seem upset. Have I offended you in some way?’

  ‘No,’ she replies shortly, although her eyes say different. She’s glaring at me like something revolting she’s seen on a pavement – and almost stepped in. Then, suddenly dropping the attitude, she shakes her head and smiles. ‘No, really, it’s nothing to do with you.’

  Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just boyfriend trouble but I’m not entirely convinced. I nod and get on with my work but for the rest of the morning she keeps giving me these strange little looks, watching me when she thinks I’m not aware of it.

  At lunchtime she goes out for sandwiches and I stand at the counter, flipping through the local paper. The shop’s busier than it was but there are still long stretches of quiet. As the month goes on, trade should pick up although by then, of course, Dee may have sold the business. Yesterday, I tried to talk to her about it but she impatiently waved me away. ‘I haven’t got time for this, Simone.’

  I turn the pages until I reach the job ads. I’m not sure what I’m searching for – another position with a florist, a return to accountancy? I don’t even know if I want to stay in the area. If the Buckleys go to Spain, maybe I should move too. Which reminds me that I haven’t heard from Marc. Surely he’d have rung if he’d bought the tickets?

  I’m still scanning the situations vacant when Kerry Anne comes back. I casually turn to the news section and pretend to look absorbed. And then suddenly, shockingly, there he is, staring straight up at me: a black and white version of the man who came into the shop. Eddie Tate. But worse than that – a dead Eddie Tate. A murdered Eddie Tate. Christ! My stomach hurtles towards the floor. I can feel my heart pumping wildly while every drop of blood drains out of my face. A hundred voices start screaming in my head: Is this why Marc so desperately wants to get away, why Jim’s been stupid drunk, why Johnny’s hand is covered in bruises . . . ?

  Quickly, I snap the paper shut; Kerry Anne’s approaching and I don’t want her to see it. What if she recognizes him? What if she suggests we call the police?

  She dumps the sandwiches beside me. ‘They didn’t have tuna so I got you chicken.’

  I stare wide-eyed at the bag, at the corner where a fat stain of grease has leaked through the wrapping. A wave of nausea hits my throat and for a second the room begins to spin. I grasp hold of the counter until the world slips gradually back into focus.

  ‘Have you finished with that?’ she asks, glancing towards the newspaper.

  ‘No!’ I almost yelp at her. Then, moderating my tone, hurriedly mumble, ‘Sorry. No. Sorry, look, I’ve got to go out. There’s something I’ve got to do.’ Forcing my legs into a m
ovement they quite clearly have no wish to make, I stagger into the kitchen and grab my bag. Still clutching the paper to my breast, I dash clumsily back through the shop, clipping the heads off several narcissi in my rush to get away. ‘I won’t be long. Half an hour.’

  Kerry Anne stares after me. She’s wearing an expression of astonishment.

  In the street the cold blustery wind comes as some relief, tearing at my clothes and blowing me partially out of the cocoon of shock. I stand for a moment, taking deep breaths of air, before fumbling for the keys and getting into the car. Throwing the paper on the passenger seat, I start the engine and pull out into the traffic. I don’t know where I’m going. The impulse is to speed home, to talk to Marc, but first I need some time alone. If nothing else I have to read that article properly.

  I drive to the nearest refuge I can think of, the local recreation ground, and park untidily on the gravel forecourt. There’s a scattering of cars but no other evidence of life. The place has a dreary abandoned feel to it. The swings are empty, the slides deserted. Even the clouds are gloomily grey, the wind sweeping them sluggishly across the sky.

  Tentatively, I reach out and pick up the paper. As if it might burn, I turn the pages with the tips of my fingers. My heart has restarted that scary anxious thump. Three pages, four. And then, just as I’m hoping that it’s all been some mad mistake, there he is again – Eddie Tate. Still staring up at me. Still dead. Still murdered. The words dance in front of my eyes, tripping in and out of focus. I swallow hard. Concentrate.

  Killed.

  Where? In Dalston. That’s in London, not Essex. That’s miles away from here. For a moment my spirits rise but as quickly fall again . . . it’s in the East End and not so far from The Palace.

  How? I scan down the paragraphs but they don’t make for easy reading. He was beaten, cut and tortured; not too much detail but enough to make my skin crawl. A slow and vicious murder. A gangland type of killing. And then his body moved and dumped like some lousy piece of trash. I can’t pretend I liked the guy but God, Holy God, surely no one deserves to die like that.

  When? On Tuesday night. Sometime late that evening or early Wednesday morning. Only a day after he came into the shop. Only a day after I talked to him. Only a day after Johnny said: I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. A thin film of sweat breaks out on my forehead. No, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. It’s inconceivable. He’s only just got out of jail.

  I wind down the window to let in some air.

  But then there’s the bruising to his hand . . . the damage he has no explanation for. And he’s killed before. There’s no doubt about that. He killed a man called Roy Foster. And maybe, just maybe, he killed Sarah too . . .

  Shit, I need a cigarette. Rummaging in my bag, I find my secret stash and shakily light up. I try to trace the hours back to Tuesday evening, to what time Marc came home: it wasn’t late, I’m sure of it. And he was okay then.

  I scan the article again. Eddie was found yesterday, wrapped in a blanket, dead in the back of his car. No, Marc couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He may be good at hiding things but he couldn’t have hidden that.

  But that’s not to say he doesn’t know about it now. He does. I’m certain he does. And everything makes a horrible kind of sense – his panic, Jim’s drinking, Dee’s agitation . . . the whole God-awful crazy atmosphere. They’re all walking on eggshells. They know what Johnny’s done.

  They’re shielding him. They’re covering his tracks.

  But why? Why should they? Friendship’s one thing – but murder’s quite another.

  There’s only one way to find out. I reach for my phone and press 1, Marc’s mobile number. It rings three times before switching to answer mode. I listen to his recorded voice – please leave a message – before shutting it off again. Should I try the house phone? No. If I want an honest answer I’ll have to ask him face to face.

  I put the engine in gear and quickly reverse out of the car park. It’s not the most perfect of manoeuvres but I don’t give a damn. Who cares if I’m driving like a maniac, I’ve got more important things to worry about.

  By the time I pull into the drive it’s almost two o’clock. There’s a light on in the kitchen. Johnny must be back by now. Do I dare go in and ask him straight out? But what if I’ve got this all wrong – you can’t just go round accusing people of murder. But then what if I’m right?

  My hands are shaking as I get out of the car. Shivering, I walk slowly round to the front of the house. What has Johnny done – and why? And how am I going to deal with it?

  But all of these thoughts are wiped clean from my mind as I open the door and hear the cry. A thin prolonged keening, high-pitched, almost unearthly, it floats along the hall and turns my blood to ice.

  Something terrible has happened.

  And I know instinctively that it has happened to Marc.

  Chapter Twelve

  Johnny

  Jim hasn’t moved for the past twenty minutes. As if transformed into stone he’s been staring blankly at the table, one hand still around his glass, the other cupped around the thick fleshy folds of his chin. His eyes have a thick glazed expression.

  Dee, however, has taken an opposite role. Like a woman possessed, she’s pacing the kitchen, tearing at her hair, her voice slowly rising to a fever pitch of hysteria. Her wailing’s starting to get on my nerves. How can anyone think straight with that fucking row going on? What she needs is a good sharp slap to shock her out it.

  And then abruptly, she falls quiet. I feel a spurt of gratitude but then, following her gaze, glance over my shoulder.

  Simone is standing by the door.

  Like a rabbit caught in headlights, she has a stunned bewildered look. Her wide shocked eyes are staring blindly at Dee. A series of tiny gulps emanate from her throat. Shit, I hope she isn’t going to cry. One weeping female’s enough for any man to handle.

  ‘What is it?’ she eventually manages to croak.

  No one speaks.

  ‘Tell me. You’ve got to tell me. It’s Marc, isn’t it? Is he . . . is he . . .’ She can’t bring herself to say the word.

  So what lucky soul’s going to have the pleasure of breaking the news to her? I sit back in my chair. Not me, that’s for certain.

  Surprisingly, it’s Jim who steps into the breach. He rises from his stupor and slowly shakes his head. ‘No, love. He’s not . . .’ But even he can’t wrap his lips immediately around it. Instead, he reaches for his glass and knocks back another inch of whisky. Then, courage restored, he gently continues, ‘He’s not dead, love. It isn’t that.’

  Simone steps forward, relief flashing briefly across her face, before Dee swiftly eliminates it again.

  ‘As bloody good as,’ she cries out, slouching down and dropping her head into her hands.

  Simone stumbles towards the table. ‘What? An accident? Has he . . .’

  Fuck, at this rate we’ll be here all day. And I can’t take any more of these histrionics. ‘For God’s sake, will someone just tell her!’

  She turns, her eyes tearfully pleading. ‘You tell me.’ Almost falling into the chair beside mine, she half reaches for my arm before withdrawing. Even now, in this moment of pure unadulterated terror, she can’t quite bring herself to touch me. ‘Please.’

  I glance towards Dee and Jim but there’s no hope of salvation there; she’s sobbing like a widow and he’s resumed his coma status.

  ‘Please,’ Simone begs again.

  So what choice do I have? There’s no easy way to do this and no point either in creeping round the truth. Prolonging the agony isn’t going to change it. On the table, there’s a folded sheet of paper. I pick it up and pass it over. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She takes it cautiously between her fingers.

  There’s a protracted moment of silence, thick and heavy. For a few seconds everyone seems to be holding their breath. It’s so quiet I can almost hear her brain ticking over, the frenzied clicks of incomprehension as she tries to
make sense of the sentences in front of her:

  WE HAVE YOUR SON.

  DO YOU WANT HIM TO JOIN EDDIE?

  YOU HAVE SEVEN DAYS TO GIVE US THE

  DIAMONDS.

  NO COPS.

  She looks up, frowning. And then, as if it might be some gruesome practical joke, her mouth quivers into a smile. ‘This is . . .’

  But by now everyone’s refusing to look at her. Even I can’t stand to go there – and bearing bad news is a speciality of mine.

  She looks desperately towards her mother-in-law. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘They’re going to kill him,’ Dee moans into her fingers. ‘They will. They’re going to kill my son.’

  Simone turns towards me, her eyes bright and frightened. ‘Johnny?’

  Shit, what am I supposed to say? I’ve already done my share. I’ve done the hard bit; I can’t be expected to explain the whole fucking story. I can’t be responsible for picking up the pieces.

  She’s still talking but I’m barely listening. ‘What diamonds? What’s happening? Where’s Marc?’ She has a crushed desolate expression on her face. It reminds me of Sarah’s. It reminds me of when Roy Foster died, when she came to see me in jail, when . . .

  Dee shifts in her chair. She glances up at Simone and wipes her tears away. ‘Ask him,’ she mutters, ‘if you want to know – ask him!’

  Which is fucking rich after everything she’s done. I glare at her, although God knows why I should be amazed – she always was the greatest bitch on earth. And the most selfish. And yes, okay, I know that she’s going through hell, but that doesn’t alter the fact that she’s still searching for a way to shift the blame.

  Simone stares at me.

  ‘Tell her,’ Dee urges, ‘she’s got a right to know.’

  You tell her, I want to yell back. But I don’t. What’s the point? We’re already up to our necks and no amount of shouting will change that. The past has caught up faster than I anticipated.

  ‘Okay,’ Dee says, as if I’ve stood my ground and blatantly refused. ‘I’ll do it then.’