The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  ‘Is that no good? You want to order something else?’

  She glares at me. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You need to eat,’ I insist.

  Christ, I sound like some fussy parent.

  As soon as that thought enters my head, I find myself gazing around, wondering how we appear to other people. The place has filled up since we first came in, single males mostly but also a few women. How do they see us? We could pass for a couple – couldn’t we? Sure, there’s an age difference but that’s not unusual. And I don’t know why it should even matter except that I’ve noticed the way some men are looking at her, their eyes roaming over her body, their eyes searching for hers. And for a moment, as if I’m with Sarah again, I feel that old proprietorial rage.

  Simone drops her fork. It clatters against her plate. She doesn’t bother to pick it up. ‘So what do you think we’re dealing with here, what kind of people?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I’m still staring at the smart-suited guy in the corner. He’s been eyeing her up for the last five minutes.

  ‘You must have some idea. Who knows about the diamonds? Who knows you’re out? Who do you think is behind all this?’

  I try to look as though I care. ‘Word gets around about these things. It could be someone from the past – and that wouldn’t be a short list – or maybe one of Eddie’s cronies, or maybe just someone who’s heard the story and . . . but come on, this is pointless; we know what they want. So long as they get it, Marc will be fine.’

  ‘You like him, don’t you? You will help him?’ Her voice has slipped to a pleading whisper. There’s a tremor in it too. Shit, I hope she isn’t going to blub.

  ‘Of course I will. You don’t even need to ask.’

  Sacrificing the rest of my meal on the altar of the greater good, I push my plate away as if I can’t bear to eat either. I stare down at the table, rearranging my features into a semblance of sympathetic grief. ‘Simone, I know what it means to be afraid of losing someone.’

  She gives me a long hard look. She wants to believe but can’t quite overcome those inner doubts. We sit in silence for a while. Then, just as I’m beginning to suspect that I may have overdone the schmaltz, she reaches out and lays her hand lightly over mine.

  ‘I’m sorry . . . about Sarah.’

  It’s a calculated gesture rather than an emotional one but at least it’s a start. And it’s also one in the eye for Mr fucking Armani; he drops his gaze immediately. I stop myself from blatantly gloating but can’t resist a moment of indulgence, of self-congratulation; this must be the first time she’s voluntarily touched me. All in all, this is working out better than I could ever have imagined.

  Simone’s still watching closely, waiting perhaps for me to talk about the wife I lost. I wonder how much Marc has told her. Best tread cautiously here. And not just because I might blow it by saying something stupid but if I think too much about Sarah I may be tempted, sorely fucking tempted, to take those car keys and drive straight back to Essex tonight . . .

  Keep it short. Keep it simple. ‘It was all – a long time ago.’

  She nods, slowly withdrawing her hand. I can feel her fingers slipping away. Shame, I was just getting used to having them there. At least she has the good sense not to say It must have been terrible. Instead, she leaves a short respectful pause.

  Her next question takes me by surprise. ‘You used to own The Palace, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, for a few years.’ I give a sardonic smile. ‘Before my dramatic fall from grace.’

  ‘Have you been back?’

  ‘Why should I want to do that?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Curiosity?’

  Christ, I’m sitting here trying to appear simultaneously strong and sympathetic, a pretty shit juggling act for any man to deal with, and she’s managed to hit on yet another subject I don’t want to dwell on. Does she suspect? Has Dee told her anything? No, she made it pretty clear that Simone was well and truly out of the loop.

  ‘It’s in the past,’ I reply abruptly. ‘Some things are better left there.’ Then, worried that might sound too defensive, I add, ‘It’s changed a lot since my day. I doubt if it’s my kind of place any more.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Really? I’d have thought any place full of half-naked females was every heterosexual man’s dream.’

  As if to provoke me she lays a slight emphasis on the word heterosexual. It has the desired effect. I flash her a look. What’s she suggesting? That maybe I’ve gone over to the other side, turned into a fucking gay boy while I’ve been inside? I’m about to make a crude retort but quickly bite my tongue. That’s what she wants, to rile me, to make me lose my cool – to try and get inside my head. She’s digging for information. Probably wiser not to try and change the subject too quickly. Instead I laugh, turn the spotlight back on her, and ask, ‘So did it bother you, Marc being there so much?’

  She knows what I’m doing, tit-for-tat, and accepts it with a smile. ‘Why should it?’

  Her nonchalance isn’t entirely convincing. I suspect there aren’t many women in the world who could happily wave their husbands off to that kind of work without small seeds of doubt lurking in their minds. I mean, shit, Sarah would have broken both my legs if I’d gone within ten paces of a stripper.

  I can’t resist sticking the knife in. ‘No, I guess he had everything he needed at home.’

  That wipes away her self-satisfied smile. She already knows that I’m aware of his affairs, of how many times he’s cheated on her. And sure, it’s a cheap shot, but worth it just to see the change in her expression.

  And I wait, grinning, thinking she’s going to come back with one of her smart-arse Simone retorts but she doesn’t. In fact the very opposite happens. Slowly, horribly, she does one of those curious crumpling things, everything falling, her eyes closing, her mouth curling down, even her hands trembling as she raises them to cover her face.

  My heart sinks. Fuck! So much for the sensitive Johnny Frank.

  ‘Sorry,’ I plead. This time I’m the one who’s reaching out, trying to make amends. But even as my hand folds over hers, she’s pulling back. Am I that awful, so vile that she can’t even bear to be near me? Perhaps I am. Because even as I’m doing it, even as I’m trying to comfort her, it’s not out of care or regret – all I’m wondering is if I’ve well and truly blown it.

  Is this the end of the road? Have I just destroyed any vestige of trust she might have had in me? Perhaps she’s already in the process of giving up, of doing what she really wants to do – calling in the filth. And then what? A pile of bloody grief, that’s what.

  While she rummages in her bag for a tissue, I make a desperate attempt to try and heal the rift. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, ‘it’s all this stuff, The Palace, the past – it gets to me. It gets under my skin. It shouldn’t, I know it shouldn’t. I need to let it go but I can’t.’

  They’re probably the most honest words I’ve spoken all night.

  And perhaps she realizes it. She raises her head and looks at me. It’s like being stared at by Bambi. Two matching smudges of mascara lie under her liquid hazel eyes and she looks so sad, so fucking vulnerable, that if I wasn’t such a bastard I might almost feel a pang of guilt.

  ‘I could do with a drink,’ she says.

  Summoning the waiter, I order a couple of large brandies. While we wait, although I’m tempted to keep on apologizing, I take the sensible option and keep my mouth shut. The greater advantage usually lies in silence. She dabs gently at her eyes in the way that women always do, quietly if accusingly repairing the damage.

  We don’t speak again until the drinks arrive.

  She takes a sip, sits back, and asks, ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ Then she glances round. ‘Are we allowed to smoke in here?’

  The idea that we couldn’t hasn’t even occurred to me. In my day you had a meal and then a fag but there’s been a fair few changes since I was last let loose on the world – and not all of them good. The
re’s not an ashtray in sight so I guess the answer is no.

  ‘There’s probably a lounge somewhere,’ I suggest.

  ‘Or we could just go back to the room.’

  Twenty years ago I’d have viewed that as a promise, as a definite green light, but sex is clearly the last thing on her mind. She’d rather crawl naked over red-hot coals than share a bed with me. ‘Sure, why not?’

  We both stand up. I throw the creep in the suit a dirty look as we leave.

  Out in the corridor she passes me the car keys. ‘Do you mind? The atlas is on the back seat.’ She takes the drink from my hand. ‘I’ll see you upstairs.’

  I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a test, a gesture of trust, or whether she’s certain that I won’t let a perfectly good glass of brandy go to waste. Maybe she’s just decided that if I am going to run out, she’d prefer I do it now rather than prolonging the agony. And as I walk across the forecourt, I can’t claim I’m not tempted. I’ve got everything I need with me: money, phone, a convenient set of car keys.

  I open the door and reach in for the map. It’s got to be one of those split second decisions – yes or no? The longer you hesitate, the more difficult it becomes.

  She turns as I come into the room. Does she look relieved to see me again? It’s hard to tell with Simone. I’ve clearly taken a little longer than I should have. Maybe it’s disappointment that forces her mouth into a smile. Perhaps she was hoping I would go. She’d be absolved of all responsibility then; she could ring the cops with a clear conscience.

  But she can’t get rid of me that easily.

  I put the map down beside the cabinet, dig out a packet of cigarettes that I bought in the bar and offer her one.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she claims, accepting a light. ‘I’ve given up.’

  As she leans towards me I can smell her hair, a light trailing fragrance like vanilla. I’m still getting used to this again – the scent of women. She seems to linger for a second longer than she needs to before taking a step back and retreating to her bed.

  I take off my shoes and stretch out on the other one. I’m not sure what to say next, where to go. I’ve already made one major mistake and don’t intend to make another.

  But I don’t have to worry. Almost immediately she begins to talk, asking about my past, telling me about hers, doing that subtle bonding/interrogation routine. This is my story, what’s yours? Knowledge is power – but only if you’re getting the right information. I make up most of the answers, a good creative exercise for my brain.

  ‘You must feel bitter. I mean, about all the years that you’ve lost.’

  Fuck, it’s like being back with the prison shrink. And of course the years aren’t the only thing I’ve managed to lose. I shrug. ‘You’ve got to try and move on. Make the most of what you’ve got. It’s the future that matters.’

  You have to take responsibility for what you’ve done. Isn’t that how the dictum goes? Although it strikes me that the Buckleys haven’t done too much of that – and aren’t intending to either. I should have finished Jim off when I had the chance.

  After a while she starts telling me about Marc, how they met, what he’s like, what a decent guy he is at heart. And sure, he isn’t perfect, far from it, but he doesn’t deserve this. He’s kind, he’s smart, he’s . . .

  As if I give a damn.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it if . . . if anything happened to him.’

  Looking at me with those big sad eyes, trying to lay on the guilt trip. I know what she’s really saying: If you won’t do it for him, then do it for me. What’s a few diamonds between friends? I nod and make all the right sympathetic noises.

  The subject is starting to bore me – there’s only so much you want to hear about a woman’s husband – but her presence is having the opposite effect. There’s no denying she’s a looker and no pushover either. I like a female with a bit of spirit. Still, I’d better be careful; sneaking glances at her tits probably isn’t the best way to ingratiate myself.

  ‘Well,’ she says, reaching down for the atlas, ‘I guess we ought to sort the route for tomorrow. You want to show me where we’re going?’

  I slide off my bed and walk the few steps across to hers. Not sure if I should sit down, I hover instead around her right shoulder. She flips to the relevant page.

  ‘There,’ I tell her, leaning over. I put my finger on the spot.

  ‘Cromer?’

  ‘No, just along the coast – there.’

  My hand brushes briefly against hers. I can smell her hair again or perhaps it’s the scent of her soap. I breathe it in. And maybe this time I’m the one who lingers for a little longer than I should because she suddenly turns and glares up at me.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. Her tone is dismissive.

  And like a chastened dog I skulk quietly away.

  Rolling a cigarette, I pretend I’m not watching her. But there’s a mirror directly opposite and I can’t resist the occasional glance. Now is it just my imagination – or a severe case of wishful thinking – that she’s deliberately drawing attention to those long legs? While she’s studying the map, she’s slowly stroking one thigh with the palm of her hand.

  And a part of me longs for the old days, when I wouldn’t have thought twice, when I’d have known instinctively what to do and what to say. But I was a young man then, a different man – and he’s dead and buried.

  The minutes tick by. At ten o’clock, I take a shower. A cold one. Standing under the water, I feel like one of those ancient monks attempting to drive away his devils. Don’t think about her breasts. Raise your mind to greater things. Don’t think about her mouth. Concentrate. Don’t think about your fucking cock. It’s revenge I’m after, not some roll in the hay. Keep your mind on the job.

  And so I close my eyes and try.

  It’s a been long day but a useful one. Patrick bunged me a monkey this morning, enough cash to keep me going for a while. And I picked up a few extra quid from the others. They’ll get it back – as they know – with interest. In a couple of days I’ll have the diamonds. And then . . . well, it’ll be time to start running.

  It’s only as I turn off the water that I hear the murmur of her voice. Is there someone else in the room? No, she’s on the phone. Talking to Dee, no doubt, updating her on all the latest news. Shit, if she only knew what she’d done, what Carl had done, she wouldn’t be so quick to confide. I lean my ear against the door but she’s only uttering those neutral phrases: Yes, I know. No, I’m sure. Don’t worry. Do you think so?

  Fuck knows what kind of crap Dee is feeding her. Anything to keep her on side, anything to keep her precious son alive, while she clings vainly to the hope that I value my freedom too much to betray them.

  I’m still listening, slowly drying myself, when I hear her say, ‘Honestly, I don’t think he will.’

  What does she mean – that I won’t cooperate, that I won’t give up the diamonds, or that I won’t run out on her? It’s impossible to tell from the tone of her voice. And then, as if she’s suddenly become aware of the silence from the bathroom, she murmurs, ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  I head towards the basin and vigorously brush my teeth. It suddenly occurs to me – hell – that I’ve left my phone in my jacket pocket. What if she’s found it, if she’s already going through the address book and checking out the numbers – what if she’s discovered Mel’s? That’s going to be a hard one to explain. But no, she wouldn’t dare get caught in the act. I could walk back in at any minute.

  And I do walk back, faster than I intended, with only a towel around my waist. I’m hyped up, ready for a showdown, but she’s still lying on her bed staring innocently at the map. She glances up at me, her eyes skimming over my chest, before lowering her gaze again.

  ‘Are you done?’

  I get that feeling, that grievous self-conscious feeling, that I’m a touch more naked than I
ought to be – and a damn sight older. I’ve kept myself in shape but I’ll never be young again. You can work out in the gym, you can shift the weights, but you can’t reclaim time. ‘It’s all yours.’

  What does she see when she looks at me?

  Nothing to light her fire, that’s for sure. She disappears into the bathroom as quickly as a rabbit down a hole.

  By the time she comes back I’m already in bed, my back turned to her. She turns off the light but half an hour later she’s still awake. She rolls over, the crisp sheets rustling. Even in the dark I can feel her eyes on me. She’s clearly thinking hard – but trying to decide what? If I’m safe to be trusted? No, she’ll never believe that. But maybe if I’ve got another reason for wanting to stick around – that if she’s nice enough to me, friendly enough, I might finally do what she wants.

  It’s an interesting thought.

  How far will she go to save her husband?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Simone

  I’m starting to wonder if Dee was right about Johnny. All the looks he keeps giving me, the sneaky glances when he thinks I’m not watching. What’s that about? Perhaps there is some truth in what she says – You know how he feels – but if there is, he’s got a funny way of showing it. And how do I even begin to get inside his head? At least half of what he said last night was lies. Although I’m not sure who he’s trying harder to hide from – himself or me.

  But if it is true, if Johnny does hold a torch – however faint – it could be useful, a road out of this nightmare. Unpleasant as the prospect is, getting close to him might be the only way to save Marc. But not too close. Just close enough for him to believe that I’ve got an interest too, that maybe, just maybe . . .

  Ugh. Even the thought of it sends a shiver down my spine. Did he notice? Hopefully, he’ll just put it down to the fact the heater isn’t working properly. I’ve been driving for over three hours now and the rain still hasn’t stopped. I don’t like being this far from London. What will I do if he disappears with the car? I can’t watch him every minute of the day. Yesterday, he could have gone – I gave him the perfect opportunity – and a part of me hoped that he would. It was the selfish part, the part that wanted rid of him for ever. But for Marc’s sake, for Dee’s – God, she sounded terrible last night – I’ve got to stick it out.