The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even reply. He just keeps on walking.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Johnny

  The world’s doing a dance, a vicious tango of revenge and retribution. Just to move requires an effort, a triumph of will over body, but if I stop walking I may never start again.

  Fuck. I should have seen it coming.

  Simone’s right beside me, fussing, panicking, trying to hold me up, trying to persuade me to sit down, desperate to call an ambulance. But if she does that then the cops won’t be far behind. And the last thing I need – with the ghost of Eddie Tate still lurking – is to draw attention to myself.

  ‘Just get me back,’ I keep on mumbling.

  There are lights strung along the esplanade. I can’t remember when they came on. Like a series of tiny magnesium flares, they’re exploding in my eyes, hurting, burning. I raise a hand to shield my face.

  Someone’s approaching. Quick footsteps on concrete. Perhaps they heard her screams. I turn away, lurch towards the steps and start to climb.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I hear her murmur. ‘Thanks. He had a fall but he’s all right.’

  A pause before the footsteps eventually retreat.

  She clambers after me. Now she’s quiet, accepting, trying to assist rather than impede. She lets me lean against her, producing small sounds of encouragement as we slowly struggle up. Her shock’s beginning to wear off, to be replaced by a more brutal pragmatism: better this than the alternative – I won’t be much use to her in Accident and Emergency.

  No, that’s not fair. I’m the one who’s refusing to go.

  But I’m still going to get the interrogation. A hundred questions are poised on her lips – questions about who did it and why – but she has the good grace, at least for the moment, to keep them to herself.

  What the fuck will I tell her?

  We halt at the top where she roots in her bag and gets out a roll of tissues. The faint glow of a street lamp fizzes in my brain. I don’t want to stop. I’m afraid to stop. The hotel’s within sight but without her help I’m not sure if I can reach it. One last burst, that’s all we need. ‘Come on,’ I urge.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ she mutters, holding me back, ‘you can’t go in like that.’

  And she’s right. She’s thinking more clearly than I am. If there’s one thing hoteliers hate – apart from arson, vomit and reneging on the bill – it’s guests bleeding all over the carpet. Someone’ll be on the blower, calling the filth, before the first drops have even hit the shag pile.

  ‘Here,’ she says, peering into my face, and making soft dabbing motions round my nose. ‘Christ, you look awful.’

  ‘Hey, skip the sweet talk. Just say it like it is.’ It comes out in a slur, barely decipherable. My mouth seems to be speaking a foreign language. I try a wry smile instead. Johnny Frank: always the hero. A big mistake. My jaw hurts like hell. Is it broken? Tentatively, I reach up to touch it. I don’t think so.

  She scowls, pushing my fingers away. ‘Leave it.’

  I’m hanging on to the rail, still trying to look tough, while she mops up the damage. Shit, if I stand here much longer my legs are going to collapse. The pain’s starting to kick in on a deeper level. I need to sit down before I fall down.

  ‘Okay,’ she finally declares, ‘that’s not so bad.’ Well, that’s what her mouth says but her eyes say something different. She’s clearly seeing road kill. Leaning closer she turns up the collar of my coat. ‘Let me go in first. If there’s anyone on reception, I’ll keep them talking. You take the side stairs. And keep your head down.’ She pauses. It’s a long distant pause. ‘Johnny, are you listening?’

  Listening? Of course I’m fucking listening. I just got distracted for a second, wondering why I ever came here, what I’m doing, why it hurts to breathe, why the fuck I’ve got stars dancing in front of my eyes.

  ‘Sure.’

  She doesn’t seem convinced. Gazing up at me, there’s God knows what intentions running through her head. Before she can find her way back to 999, I grab her arm and force her forward. Only twenty feet until we reach our destination. I’m starting to slump, to lean too heavily against her. I can make it. Or can I? Even when I get inside there’s another flight of stairs to negotiate. I’d forgotten. How could I have forgotten? She’s only just told me.

  ‘Can you manage?’ she asks.

  I’m suddenly standing, swaying, squinting in through the doors. It’s light inside, too bright. I’ve no idea where the last few moments went. I can’t remember walking here. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I can see the stairs – they look like the winding ascent to Everest. How the fuck am I going to get up those?

  She hesitates, uneasy. ‘Look, you don’t have to do this.’

  I glare at her. Jesus. What does she want – a fucking debate?

  ‘Okay,’ she says, frowning, getting the message loud and clear. ‘Just give me some time. Give me a minute before you come in.’

  With one last backward glance, she swings through the doors. And as soon as she’s left I wish that she hadn’t. Courage is easier to sustain in company; without an audience, it hardly seems worth the bother. Sixty seconds. I begin to count them off. One, two, three . . . My nose has started to bleed again. I can feel it, taste it. The blood’s running into my mouth. Raising a wad of damp tissue to stem the flow, I hunch back into the shelter of the doorway. It would be faster, easier, once I got inside to take the lift but to do that I’d have to walk straight across the foyer.

  It must be a minute by now. I look in through the glass again. Simone’s deep in conversation with the receptionist, a series of maps laid out on the desk. Excellent. Time to go. Huddling as deep into my collar as I can, and keeping my face averted, I quietly open the door and, using every last inch of energy, launch myself up the red-carpeted stairs. It’s only five shallow excruciating steps before I’m out of sight.

  Did anyone notice? Well, no shouts or screams; that has to be a good sign. I can hear Simone’s voice, winding things up now, expressing her thanks. She’ll be here soon. Breathing heavily, I hang on to the banister and wait for the dizziness to pass. After the cold outside, the warmth feels almost tropical. Stifling. I can feel myself slipping, consciousness blurring into a semi-dream, solidity becoming liquid . . .

  The next thing I’m aware of is being in the room. How the fuck did she get me here? Perhaps she bounced me up two flights, dragging me by my hair. I couldn’t feel any worse if she had.

  Every muscle, every joint, cries out in protest. To move is to hurt. So I try to stop moving, to sit very still, to give my central nervous system a break.

  The curtains are drawn and there’s a thin lemon light drifting from a bedside lamp. How long have I been here? Five minutes, twenty? My jacket’s off, hung over the back of a chair. Ruined. I’ll never get those bloodstains out.

  There’s a knock on the door. I jump, kick-starting the pain again.

  But Simone answers it, unconcerned. I hear a murmur of voices before the door clicks shut. She comes back with a bottle of brandy and two glasses in her hand. Who says women aren’t good in a crisis? As if she’s about to perform a major operation without the aid of anaesthetic, she solemnly pours me a large one.

  ‘Here, you’d better drink this.’

  I’m not about to argue. I take half of it in one large gulp. Like liquid fire it sweeps through my body, burning and then slowly numbing. I can feel the sweat prickling on my forehead. Another mouthful and the glass is empty.

  She instantly refills it.

  Now I’m beginning to feel almost human again. Not in peak condition but a little less like a piece of garbage. There seems every possibility, major organ failure notwithstanding, that I might even live.

  ‘We need to get you cleaned up.’ Poised with a bowl of water, cotton wool and a bottle of antiseptic, she adds ominously, ‘And while I do that, you can tell me what happened.’

  I squint at her, shaking my head as if the memory�
�s too vague. My tongue still feels too large for my mouth. ‘I don’t know. I can’t . . . They jumped me. They were after money, I guess.’

  ‘What? Are you saying they were a pair of muggers?’ Her tone has suddenly slipped out of the sympathy zone and into the incredulous.

  I flinch as the antiseptic makes contact with an open wound. A hissing sound escapes from my lips. ‘Jesus, Simone. What is that stuff, acid?’ I gaze at her with all the tearful despair of a man about to lose his dignity. But indifferent to my agony, she just keeps dabbing away.

  Florence Nightingale she fucking isn’t.

  ‘So how come your wallet’s still in your pocket?’

  I shrug, a movement that’s more trouble – and more pain – than it’s worth. ‘Is it? I don’t know. You must have scared them off.’

  ‘Don’t mess me about, Johnny.’

  She finds another sensitive spot and proceeds to attack. Perhaps this isn’t the best time for prevarication.

  ‘Look, it’s not what—’

  ‘It’s to do with Eddie Tate, isn’t it?’ she interrupts. ‘It’s to do with Marc. Why don’t you just tell me? You owe me that much. I saved your skin out there.’

  Well, she’s making up for it now. Another few minutes and I doubt there’ll be any flesh left on my bones. ‘It’s nothing to do with that, with them. It’s not connected. I promise.’

  ‘So how come I don’t believe you?’

  ‘Why would I lie?’ I reach out for my drink.

  She sighs, despairingly. ‘I’ve no idea. Why do you usually lie?’

  And from the way that she says it I get this instinctive feeling that she knows something more than she should, that one of my sordid little secrets has wormed its way out into the open. And that should make me uneasy but it doesn’t. In fact it has the opposite effect. I find the concept intriguing, challenging, even vaguely erotic.

  A disturbing thought to have at a time like this.

  I raise my eyes to gaze straight into hers. I didn’t intend to tell her – but nothing else will shut her up. And perhaps a part of me wants to share it, to speak it out loud. ‘Okay, you really want to know?’ I pause for that extra effect, a distinctly dramatic pause. ‘It was payback.’

  She frowns, then wrinkles her nose as if she can still smell deceit. God, this girl’s got a definite trust problem.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  At least I’ve gained a reprieve from the sadistic ministrations. She’s standing motionless, waiting for an answer. I take the opportunity to grab another gulp of brandy. ‘My past sins coming back to haunt me.’ And when she still continues to look both suspicious and confused, I touch my jaw with the tips of my fingers. ‘A gift from Roy Foster’s family, my dear – a reminder that I might have been gone but I’ve never been forgotten.’

  There’s a short silence.

  ‘Shit,’ she says eventually.

  ‘Shit,’ I agree wryly. Then, as I seem to have caught her off guard, I decide to exploit it. I mean, this hardly qualifies as one of the greatest days of my life; provoking Simone may be its last remaining pleasure. ‘But I’m sure you think I deserve it.’

  She has the decency to blush before turning away. ‘You served your time,’ she mutters, like some pinko-liberal reading from a manifesto.

  Strange, though, how she can’t meet my eyes.

  But I pour her a brandy anyway. It’s the least I can do. A tiny pang of guilt has broken through. Loath as I am to admit it, if it hadn’t been for her I’d be drinking intravenously by now, probably with a catheter stuck up my cock, caught within four bland magnolia walls, eating jelly and dreaming morphine.

  ‘That’s one fucking scream you’ve got.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’ve had a lot of practice.’ She lights two cigarettes and passes one to me.

  You don’t get this kind of service on the NHS. I take off my shoes and lie carefully back against the pillows. If I don’t breathe it doesn’t hurt too much. Maybe I’m getting better or maybe it’s just the booze. ‘You want to tell me about it?’

  She glares at me. ‘No.’ Considering her usual repertoire of scowls and frowns, this effort’s barely second-rate. She isn’t sure what stance to take – sympathetic, cold or merely cynical. Whatever I’ve done in the past, I’m still her only hope. She has to make the best of any existing chances. ‘But what makes you so sure they’re not a part of this, that they’re not—’

  Before she can complete the question, I’ve already jumped in. ‘Come on. Would you beat the living crap out of someone about to lead you to a stash of diamonds?’ I grin and shake my head. ‘This was purely personal, sweetheart, nothing more, nothing less.’

  She winces at the sweetheart. It gets her every time. She takes a sip of brandy, glancing over the rim of her glass. ‘Trouble seems to follow you around.’

  ‘It’s a curse,’ I agree.

  Perhaps it’s the tone of the comment, its flippancy, or just my unwanted and thoroughly undesirable presence that nudges her closer to the edge. Whatever the cause, she reaches for the dreaded antiseptic again. ‘We haven’t finished. You need to sit up.’

  Is she kidding? I’m finally getting comfortable. ‘I’m fine. I just need some rest.’

  Simone puts her head to one side and stares at me. Her eyes are bright. She looks like one of those wild predatory birds, an eagle or a hawk, observing its prey and preparing to swoop. There might be grace, there might be beauty, but above all there’s an overwhelming sense of hunger. If she had the choice she’d tear me apart, limb from limb. Instead, she assaults me with words. ‘Do you want an infection? Do you want to die of blood poisoning?’

  She’s got the sweetest way of putting things.

  Reluctantly, I drag myself forward.

  After a few minutes more of her less than gentle repairs, she covers the cut above my eye with lint and a plaster. ‘You’d better take your shirt off.’

  Now that’s an offer that doesn’t come along every day. But even as the thought arrives, it’s extinguished. Just moving my arms reminds me of every bruise and cut. I struggle, wincing, out of the sleeves. There’s nothing like pain for focusing the mind.

  Well, except for one thing – watching someone else’s eyes roam over the damage.

  She throws my bloodied shirt aside and gazes long and hard at my abdomen. Her expression borders on disgust.

  I force a laugh. ‘That impressive, huh?’

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she asks, ‘Do you think they’ll come back? Do you think they’ll try again?’

  As if I have a fucking clue. It’s the last thing I want to think about.

  ‘They could have killed you,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  She lowers her eyes. ‘Sorry.’

  But she’s not wrong; they could have. The fact they didn’t suggests they’re not likely to. All it would have taken was a blade, a gun – two seconds instead of two minutes. Fuck you. Finished. No, they were just wreaking their own private form of revenge. It’s over and done with.

  Isn’t it?

  Where’s the brandy? I fumble for my glass.

  When I glance up again, she’s poised with yet another of her vicious antiseptic swabs. ‘It might be easier if you do this yourself.’

  Is this her idea of being kind – or just another way of saying she can no longer bear to touch me? I take it off her and make some vague swipes across my chest and stomach. It hurts like fuck but I try not to whimper.

  She stands a safe distance away, watching. ‘Look, Johnny, are you sure these . . . these people . . . aren’t connected to Marc? They must have followed us. There’s no other way they could have known where we were. They might have thought you’d already picked up the diamonds.’

  It’s an interesting theory and she’s right on one score – they must have followed us up from London. And probably all over the city too. Once I would have spotted them in a second, felt their presence instinctively, but I was so wrapped up in my own fun an
d games that I never thought to look over my shoulder. I shake my head. ‘No, they didn’t even search me. And anyway, they wouldn’t take that kind of risk. What if they were wrong? They wouldn’t get a second chance.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she agrees, disappointed that she hasn’t stumbled on the perfect clue. And then, as if the sight of my bruised semi-nakedness offends her, she turns and disappears into the bathroom. She’s back a few seconds later with a white hotel dressing gown draped over her arm. ‘Put this on before you freeze to death.’

  I do as I’m told.

  She curls up on the other bed, her hands wrapped tight around the brandy glass. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  I’m not sure if it’s a purely geographic or more general query. ‘Nothing’s changed.’ I bark out a small laugh. ‘Well, except I’ll be watching my back with a little extra care and attention. No, we’ll carry on. We’ll head back to London on Monday.’

  Patrick will have the diamonds by then, everything done and dusted, and I’ll be able to fuck off for good. No more mistakes. No messing around. And no more fucking Buckleys or Fosters to cause me grief.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Johnny?’

  Slowly, lazily, I open my eyes and look at her. ‘Like someone’s nailed my wrists to a cross and beaten the crap out of me but apart from that . . . yeah, pretty good.’

  As if I’ve just told a particularly distasteful joke, the corners of her mouth curl down. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. She looks quietly reproachful. She’s got that ability, that disturbing female skill, to make you feel – no matter how innocent you are – as guilty as hell.

  It’s a talent.

  Am I acting like a tosser? I know I should be more appreciative. But gratitude doesn’t come easily. I’m not used to expressing it. I’m not good at being beholden. I’m not good at owing.

  I search for something encouraging to say. ‘Try not to worry,’ is the best I can come up with. It’s hardly original but I’m barely sober. The brandy’s soaking through my blood, reducing my vocabulary to the basics.