The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  So I’m feeling pretty down but Johnny seems the opposite. Ever since we left the city, he’s had a smile on his face. Maybe he’s a country boy at heart or, more likely, he’s just pleased to be a step closer to retrieving his diamonds.

  ‘Don’t you like the sea?’ he asks, as the slate-coloured waves tumble into view. He’s staring out of the window, his nose almost pressed against the pane.

  Personally, I don’t think there’s anything as bleak as a seaside town in the middle of winter but I keep that opinion to myself. ‘Sure, it’s very . . .’ Cold? Wet? Dismal? Eventually, I settle on ‘. . . invigorating.’

  He laughs. ‘You’ll get used to it. Hell, you may even get to like it.’

  Not too used to it, I hope. Just how long is he planning on staying here?

  ‘So has it changed much?’ I ask, as he guides me towards a hotel on the front. He’s either got a good memory or someone else has provided him with directions. ‘I presume you’ve been here before.’

  He hesitates. ‘With Sarah,’ he eventually replies, but doesn’t elaborate.

  There’s an opening there, a way in, but I don’t grab it fast enough. Even before I’ve turned off the engine he’s unlocked the door and leapt out. Leaning down, he says, ‘There’s no point the two of us getting wet. I’ll check, see if they’ve got any rooms.’

  I watch as he strides quickly up the steps. In fact the rain has slowed now; there’s only a fine drizzle spattering the windscreen. But I’m not worried about him slipping away. Whatever Johnny’s game plan is I’m certain, at least for the time being, that it still includes me.

  And right enough he reappears a few minutes later. He has that way of walking, a kind of confident strut as if he owns the pavement. Perhaps it’s something he learned in prison or, more likely, it’s always been his style.

  I wind down the window.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, extending his left hand, palm up. ‘No problem. If you give me the keys, I’ll get the bags out.’

  And I wonder why I’ve never noticed before – the pale scars running up the inside of his wrist, the brutal white lines that look so much like . . . I know what they are but somehow they don’t fit in with my image of him. I feel uncomfortable, faintly shocked, as if I’ve inadvertently witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to.

  He sees me staring and quickly pulls his hand away.

  There’s one of those awkward elongated pauses. Then, to cover my embarrassment, I get out of the car and open the boot myself.

  As we go inside, the receptionist looks up and smiles. ‘Good morning.’

  I say good morning back, everything pleasant, everything normal, as if we’re some perfectly ordinary couple on a weekend break. What would she think, this girl, if she knew what was really going on? Not that she’d believe it. I can hardly come to terms with it myself.

  I’ve got that bad sick feeling in my stomach again.

  ‘You all right?’ he asks as we go up in the lift.

  No, I’m not all right. Eddie Tate is dead and my husband might be next. And I’m relying on a man who can’t be trusted, a man who’s already served a hefty sentence for murder, to come riding to the rescue.

  What kind of a fool does that make me?

  ‘Fine.’ I nod.

  And suddenly it all seems so impossible, so beyond my control, that I can barely stand up. My legs feel like jelly. I try to steady myself by leaning against the side of the lift. Shit, I’m so tired of pretending I can deal with all this. It won’t change anything. It won’t make anything better. He already knows I’m scared witless.

  The words have escaped before I can stop them. ‘Okay, so I’m not. I’m worried sick. I’m terrified. Is that what you want to hear? It’s been a couple of days and Dee still hasn’t had a call . . . and so something’s got to be wrong, hasn’t it? What if—’

  ‘They will,’ he interrupts, ‘they’re just making us sweat.’

  ‘You can’t be sure.’

  I want him to tell me that he is, that he knows it beyond a shadow of doubt, but of course he can’t. Instead he lifts his shoulders in that familiar shrug and tries to do the next best thing. ‘That’s the way these people work.’

  The lift doors open and the corridor beckons.

  I have to force my feet to move. I’ve got this sudden urge to hang on his arm, to plead with him. Please help me. Please don’t turn your back and walk away. I’d be willing to get down on my knees and beg if I thought, for even a moment, that it might save Marc’s life. But that isn’t the way to keep Johnny on side. I’ve got to play a smarter game than that.

  He’s still looking at me as we enter the room, wondering perhaps if I’m about to lose my nerve, to cross that discomfiting line into hysteria. I can’t have him thinking that. If he starts imagining I’m more of a liability than an asset, he’ll drop me as fast as a bag of rats.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, with what I hope sounds like renewed confidence. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ I even manage to dredge up a smile. Making an effort to pull myself together, I cross over to the window and stare out. There’s a glorious sea view. ‘Hey, look at that.’

  He comes and stands beside me.

  As we both stare out towards the horizon, I have this mounting dread that he’s about to touch me, to lay his hand sympathetically on my shoulder, but he doesn’t. Instead he glances at his watch. ‘We’ve got an hour – do you fancy a walk or would you rather stay put?’

  I’m hardly an outdoors sort of girl – and outside looks about as inviting as a stroll through Siberia – but anything’s better than staying here. The room might be more spacious than the car but it still feels as suffocating. ‘Yeah, let’s go for a walk.’

  I glance back as I close the door behind me. It’s a nice double room, a large double room, with a view to die for. That can’t come cheap. But then is he paying for the privilege or am I? The question of the bill remains unresolved. He paid for last night so maybe it’s my turn today. And it’s not the money that bothers me – I don’t give a damn how much it costs, or what it takes, to get Marc free – but there’s still that nagging doubt that Johnny might be taking me for one almighty ride.

  It’s icy outside, a freezing wind blowing briskly off the North Sea. Lord, does anyone come here for pleasure? I’m glad I brought my heavy coat. As we make our way towards the shore, the tips of my fingers already white, I lower my chin into my collar and dig my hands deeper into my pockets.

  ‘You see,’ he says, as if I might actually be enjoying it, ‘it’s not so bad, is it?’

  Well, he’s clearly happy. The wind has coloured his cheeks, a blush of pink relieving their usual pallor. He’s even wearing a different smile. We don’t descend to the sand – the tide’s in, covering the beach – but stroll instead along the raised concrete walkway.

  Now might be a good time to embark on the charm offensive, to test Dee’s theory, but I don’t know where to start. Did you come here often? Flirting hardly seems appropriate when someone’s holding a gun to your husband’s head.

  He wanders over to the rail, and stares down.

  It’s not even midday but already the light is fading. Gloomy as dusk, the sky lies heavily above us. And okay, I’m not denying it, there is something compulsive, almost mesmerizing, about watching the waves crash around the boulders. Despite the cold, I don’t have any inclination to move. And it’s not just the image, it’s the sound too – that rhythmic flow and ebb, the rise and fall, the impression that there’s a power so much stronger than the human will.

  And Lord, I hope that’s true – because whatever’s driving Johnny, I sure as hell can’t compete. I only have to look at his face to realize that. His grey eyes are suddenly furious, his lips slightly open, his teeth clenched tightly together. His hands are lying on the rail in two closed fists.

  Perhaps divine intervention is the best I can hope for.

  He pulls away abruptly and starts walking. He doesn’t even look back. Should I just let him go? No, I can’t a
fford to let him leave like this. Running and stumbling on my heels, I eventually catch up and fall in with his stride, step for step.

  He doesn’t speak.

  I keep my mouth firmly shut too. Silence. If that’s what he wants – fine. I can do that.

  We’ve walked the length of the front, and doubled back, before he looks halfway human again. What’s going through his mind? Sarah, perhaps, the times he spent with her here. That can’t be easy. Or maybe just all the years that have washed through his life. And I can’t begin to imagine what eighteen years in prison does to someone, what it means, how it alters and destroys, how it . . .

  But forget it. No. The last thing I’m going to do is to start feeling sorry for him. That’s the road to nowhere. For all I know he could have killed her too. He could have had Sarah murdered as easily as he killed Roy Foster.

  He stops suddenly. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  And for a second, lost in too dark a place, I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. I raise my eyes and look at him.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting at one. Do you want a quick drink or would you rather go back to the hotel?’

  I’d rather go back. I’m tired, exhausted. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning, falling in and out of restless dreams, too worried that he’d pack his bag and run. And on top of that there was the three-hour drive to Norfolk. So yes, I’d dearly love to slip between those clean white sheets and slide into oblivion. But I can’t. I won’t. I’m too afraid.

  ‘I’ll stay – if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why should I?’ he asks. Now he’s smiling again, returned to normal – or at least as normal as Johnny ever is. He’s back in control, his emotions safely barricaded. After one last lingering look at the sea, he turns and heads up the steps. I follow behind, trailing at his heels.

  The pub’s only a short distance away. As soon as we walk in, I feel heartened. And it’s not just to do with the blazing log fire throwing out its rays of warmth – grateful as my extremities are – but that it’s such a relief to be with other people again. Being alone with Johnny frays my nerves. I never know what he’s thinking, what he’s planning. Here, in the company of strangers, surrounded by the gentle buzz of midday chatter, there’s reassurance: surely nothing too terrible can happen while this tiny part of the world spins so comfortably.

  We find an empty table and he asks, ‘What would you like?’

  What I’d like is something strong, something to keep me feeling optimistic. ‘Will I need to drive again today?’

  He shakes his head. ‘You want a whisky?’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  I watch as he goes to the bar. The woman comes to serve him straight away. She’s a pretty, slim brunette in her mid-thirties, her blouse opened just far enough to show a hint of cleavage. After he’s given his order he makes a comment and she leans forward and laughs. Even as she’s pouring the drinks, they keep on chatting and smiling, trading words I’m too far away to hear. I watch her dark eyes lift and search out his. She’s engaged in that subtle routine of female appraisal. I’m not sure why it offends me so much or why I can’t stop staring. Perhaps it’s because I don’t think of Johnny as an object of desire, as a man that women might find attractive – or perhaps I’m just amazed that he can even imagine flirting at a time like this.

  Which brings me unwillingly back to my own hypocrisy. Wasn’t I intending to do exactly the same thing? So maybe I’m just annoyed that she got in there first. Frowning, I strip off my jumper and glance down at my T-shirt. Perhaps it would help if I slipped the front zip down an inch or two . . .

  But by the time he returns, my modesty – along with my zip – has returned to a more conventional position. Johnny might be happy to take advantage of anything offered on a plate but it won’t alter his intentions. I’ve got to be cooler than that and more cunning. I gaze sweetly up at him, accepting the drink with a smile. ‘Thanks.’

  He takes the chair opposite and sits down.

  He’s bought doubles. And not the cheap stuff. I’m hardly an expert but it only takes a sip to tell the difference. This is the kind of whisky that slides gently down the throat, calming and soothing, making everything seem temporarily better.

  I lean back and let it do its work.

  He crosses his long legs and sits back too. I follow his gaze, towards the flames of the fire, the other tables, the people around us. What does he see? I can’t read those cold grey eyes of his. Then, as if an unexpected memory has caught him off guard, his face twists a little and he sighs. Quickly he drops his head, gets out his tobacco and starts to roll a cigarette.

  ‘Is it difficult for you – being back here?’

  He looks up but evades the question. ‘I didn’t exactly have a choice.’

  Didn’t he? I rather got the impression that he wanted to come. He certainly seemed keen enough when we arrived. Or is he trying to claim that he’s doing this for me, for Marc? Perhaps he’s fishing for some gratitude.

  The whisky helps the lie slip easily off my tongue. ‘I understand.’ I even make myself lean forward and lay my hand briefly over his. His fingers are warm but, like last night at the restaurant, it still takes an effort to touch them without recoiling. ‘And I appreciate it. Honestly.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he replies. ‘That’s what friends are for, Simone. Perhaps one day you can return the favour.’

  Which has a fairly ominous ring to it. But I nod and smile. Because isn’t that what friends do too?

  There’s a short expectant silence as if he’s waiting for me to continue.

  I rack my brains trying to scramble something suitable to add. In the end all I come up with is a rather weak, ‘I hope so.’

  His gaze flickers over my face, perhaps searching for signs of insincerity. They can’t be too hard to find. He lights his cigarette, exhaling with a sigh. ‘So, it’s looks like we’re stuck together, you and I. Well, at least for a while. That’s a turn-up for the books.’

  It’s that all right. ‘Who’d have thought?’

  ‘Who’d have thought,’ he echoes softly. ‘And imagine – a few days ago, you couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as me.’

  The heat from the fire has nothing on the inferno that rages on to my cheeks. You can’t beat the truth for major embarrassment. Mumbling, I reply, ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’

  But even to my own ears it doesn’t sound convincing.

  Surprisingly, he leans forward and laughs. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t blame you. In your position, I’d have been pretty dubious myself. I’m hardly the houseguest from heaven.’

  Grasping at this straw, I reply, ‘I didn’t know you then.’

  ‘And you do now?’

  ‘Perhaps. No. I don’t know.’ I take a swig of whisky and force myself to look into his eyes. ‘Better than I did.’

  He stares back at me. I try to decipher his expression but I can’t; it’s as empty as a blank sheet of paper. He opens his mouth but whatever he intends to say next is lost. A hand clamps firmly down on his shoulder.

  ‘Johnny, mate!’

  He turns. ‘Alan!’

  Instantly he slips into a different mode; rising briskly to his feet, even his movements are altered. There’s a frenzy of handshakes and exclamations. They heartily slap each other’s backs, separate, and then move together again. He’s suddenly acquired a rougher edge to his voice, that man-toman exclusive tone.

  ‘Fuck, it’s great to see you! You’re looking well. You’re looking good.’

  ‘You too! Shit – how long has it been?’

  ‘Too long.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Not bad, not bad.’

  And so it continues for the next few minutes while I wait – the perfect image of womanly patience – until they calm down. ‘This is Simone,’ Johnny says, remembering me. ‘Simone, this is Alan.’

  We reach across the table and shake hands.

  ‘Good to meet you.’


  ‘You too,’ he replies. He’s a red-haired ruddy-faced guy about the same age as Johnny but half a foot shorter. He winks at his old friend. ‘You should have told me, mate. I’d have brought the missus. We could have made a day of it.’

  It’s clear what he thinks – that we’re together, that we’re a couple. I glance towards Johnny, expecting him to make the correction, but he doesn’t. He just engages his Mona Lisa smile. This is probably my cue to leave.

  I pick up my coat. ‘Well, I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ Alan insists, ‘stay and have another drink. You’re not going to let this lovely lady rush off, are you, Johnny? We’ve only just met.’

  Johnny looks like he’d willingly stride across the pub and open the door for me but says instead, ‘Of course not. Same again, love?’

  Is that love thing for Alan’s benefit or for mine? He obviously doesn’t want me here but what the hell, this might be the perfect opportunity to dig up some information. And he can’t get that annoyed over it; it’s hardly as if I suggested staying. I’m only being polite. ‘Oh, okay. Better make it a single, though.’

  While he goes to the bar – where it seems, fortuitously, that he might have quite a wait – I lean towards Alan and ask, ‘So, I take it you two go way back?’

  And a few years further than that.’ He folds his burly arms on the table. He’s short and stocky with a well-developed paunch but I get the impression there’s still enough muscle left to inflict some major damage. Not a man you’d want to cross. ‘One of a kind, Johnny,’ he continues, shaking his head. ‘It’s a terrible business. Eighteen years, he never deserved that.’