The Debt

by Roberta Kray

He’s smart enough not to labour the point. He gives a brief dismissive sigh and, instead of issuing any outright denials, calmly picks up his fork and carries on eating.

  The subject is closed.

  And I’m pretty keen to move on too. Except I’m too nervous to keep my big mouth shut. ‘So how are you feeling?’ I ask for the second time this morning. I wince even as I say it. It’s a pathetic attempt to bury my mistake. ‘You’re looking much better.’

  He glances up again but doesn’t speak.

  Finding it increasingly hard to meet his gaze, I concentrate instead on his facial cuts and bruises. If I can’t be charming, I can certainly strive for caring. ‘When you’ve finished your breakfast, we should change that dressing.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he replies shortly.

  ‘No, it should be—’

  I watch the expression on his face flicker, change, and then freeze slowly into ice. ‘You know, Simone, some things are better left alone.’

  And the silence that follows is arctic.

  It’s equally cold outside but much easier to bear. I’d rather shiver out here than spend another second under his frigid scrutiny. I made my escape over an hour ago and am still pacing along the esplanade, up and down, like some frenetic prisoner making the most of their daily allowance of freedom. It’s barely afternoon but already the light’s failing, growing greyer and dimmer, the sky dissolving into the sea while the rain continues to beat down.

  I’m not even properly dressed for it. I haven’t got my scarf, my coat isn’t waterproof and my boots are leaking. I’m soaked to the skin but can’t face going back. Sloshing through the puddles, I’m trying not to think. Except all I can do is think. The morning keeps echoing through my mind – Dee’s voice, my voice, his voice. And where has it got me?

  Absolutely nowhere.

  Suddenly Katie slips into my mind. She’ll be back any day. Although it’s only been a few weeks, it feels more like a lifetime. God, I need a friend right now, someone close to talk to, someone to confide in. I wish she’d ring. And then as soon as I’ve wished it, I hope the very opposite. How am I supposed to explain all this away? Hi, how was Oz? Yeah, everything’s great here too. It’s never been better. A guy called Eddie Tate was brutally killed, Marc’s been taken hostage and I’m relying on Johnny – oh, he’s a lovely geezer, just done eighteen years for murder – to pay for the ransom in diamonds.

  No, I can’t get her involved. I can’t tell her anything. What kind of friend would that make me? There are some things that are just too dangerous to share. Leaning against the rail, I gaze down on the shore. The tide’s in, the sea crashing so violently against the stones that it throws up a spray. I don’t bother standing back. Perhaps, if I’m lucky, a freak wave will carry me off.

  But gradually I begin to recall what Johnny said earlier, about moving on, about getting on with life. And he’s right. It’s not over yet. If it all comes good I might still be able to start again with Marc. Why not? I close my eyes. It’s tempting providence to even consider it but if he survives, if he comes through, then surely we’ve got a chance . . . all those years must count for something. He’s my husband and I still love him. I do. And suddenly all I can see is his face on Christmas Eve, his smile, his eyes, the way he looked at me – and God, that has to be worth holding on to. It has to be worth fighting for.

  Slowly, I make my way back. It was a bad mistake asking Johnny about Melanie, a faux pas as they’d say in polite society. That was clearly a secret he wanted to keep the lid on. He wasn’t happy, not happy at all. And although it goes against the grain – he’s in the wrong, not me – I’ll have to do my best to make amends. Be nice, as Dee would put it.

  My feet start to drag as the hotel comes into view. The rest of the afternoon stretches ahead, long and grey and gloomy. If Johnny’s still got the hump, if I’m still in Coventry, it’s going to feel like an eternity. And just to make matters worse, he’s going to be extra suspicious of me now, reading between the lines, wondering what I’m really asking. When will I ever learn to keep my big mouth shut?

  I pause by the doors, one last minute to breathe in the fresh air and paint a smile back on my face. Idly, I glance along the street. And then I do a double take. My stomach lurches into fright.

  Where’s the car? Jesus, where is it?

  It was there, right there, just a few yards to the left of the steps. And now there’s only a space. Stupidly, I start looking around as if my memory might be playing tricks or it might have miraculously shifted itself. Perhaps it’s been stolen? But I already know the truth. I can feel it in my bones, in every tiny trembling nerve. I left him alone for over an hour, plenty of time for him to think, to make a choice, to . . .

  I’m cursing and praying – Damn him! Please God, let him still be there! – as I smash through the entrance and rocket up the stairs, two at a time. In my head I’ve got a single mental image of the car keys sitting on the bedside table. Bloody fool. Why didn’t I take them with me? My heart’s thumping, my lungs painfully trying to draw in air, but even as I stumble along the corridor I know what I’m about to find.

  I throw open the door – and the room is empty.

  His bag is gone, his clothes, every piece of evidence that he was ever here. And of course the keys are missing. Still I persist in the pointless exercise of checking the bathroom. Nothing. I stand for a second, disbelief struggling with anger and fear, before dropping down on to the bed. A hard cold scream rises in my throat. It stifles into a sob.

  ‘You bastard!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Johnny

  The door’s wide open. Simone’s perched on the edge of the bed, her body hunched over in a pose of quiet desperation. I watch as her shoulders rise and fall. She’s not crying so much as gasping for breath.

  At what stage did I change my mind? When I was checking out, when I was strolling down the steps, when I was in the car – or did I always intend to come back?

  There are some obligations you just can’t walk away from.

  I clear my throat and say too loudly, ‘Are you going to sit here all day?’

  She whirls round, a kaleidoscope of emotions passing over her face: relief, amazement, rage, joy. Jumping to her feet, she breaks into a smile. Fuck, if I’m not careful she may even try and hug me.

  ‘I thought . . .’

  She doesn’t need to finish the sentence; we both know what she thought.

  For a moment, like a couple of awkward teenagers, we stand and stare at each other. Then I step inside, acting casual. ‘We should make a move. It’s not smart to stay here, not with the Fosters hanging around. We’re better off in London.’

  ‘Sure,’ she replies softly. She doesn’t ask any awkward questions – like where the hell I’ve been for the past fifteen minutes or how I’ve suddenly regained the use of my legs – but quickly turns and starts to gather her things. Anxiety makes her clumsy. Objects slip and slide from her hands. As if terrified I might suddenly change my mind, that I might disappear as unexpectedly as I arrived, she keeps glancing nervously up.

  This isn’t the Simone I’ve come to know and . . . well, whatever. Falling back on a failsafe method of provocation, I dredge up one of my cutest grins. ‘Hey, what’s wrong, sweetheart? You worried I’d ship out without paying the bill?’

  A light flashes briefly into her eyes. ‘As if,’ she snaps back.

  I prefer her angry to grateful. And the exchange, slight as it was, seems to restore the more normal balance between us. Now her fingers are moving briskly, confidently, packing like an expert. She’s recovered her poise – and her antagonism.

  A few minutes later, we’re ready to go.

  I reach for her bag but she pulls it away and frowns. ‘It’s okay, thanks. I can manage.’

  I guess there are only so many favours you can do in a day.

  ‘So where’s the car?’ she asks, as we descend on to the street. She looks left and right. It’s raining hard, sheeting down, the water forming t
iny lakes around our feet. I see her shiver. Cold, fear, relief? It’s impossible to judge.

  ‘Round the corner,’ I reply, ‘out of sight.’

  She forces a smile and follows me.

  Out of sight? It’s about as hidden as a fucking headline. The battered white Fiat has three wheels on the pavement and one on the road. Even to my own eyes, it bears all the hallmarks of a driver who’s either had a stroke – or a violent change of heart.

  But she doesn’t comment. I open the boot and she finally passes over her bag. I get the distinct impression that she’s holding her breath, that she still isn’t sure, that she can’t relax until we’re safely on the road again. And all the while the rain’s beating down, thrumming a soft relentless rhythm against the pavement.

  She holds out a hand for the keys.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I insist, ‘I’ll drive.’

  I watch her mouth open, the objections forming on her lips before she even speaks. ‘You can’t, you haven’t got a licence, what if we get stopped, what if . . .’

  I flip the keys blithely into the air and luckily manage to catch them again. It’s good to know the gods are occasionally on my side. ‘What are the odds? Anyway, better me than you. I’ve got nothing to lose.’

  She looks like she’s about to argue but then just shakes her head and climbs passively into the passenger seat.

  I crawl in beside her and slam the door. I’m determined not to stall the bastard machine. Apart from my recent and precarious five-minute run, it’s been eighteen years since I last drove. But once you’ve learned you never forget.

  Or so they say.

  Cautiously, I start the engine, turn on the lights and check the mirrors. I slowly edge away from the kerb. All things considered, there’s probably no better place to freshen up your driving skills than in a desolate seaside town in the middle of winter. Although I doubt if Simone shares the same opinion; she’s got her seatbelt firmly secured and her eyes half-closed.

  We’re on the main road before she fully opens them again.

  By now we’ve covered a few miles and I’m getting in to my stride. It’s good to be behind the wheel again. I’m even in the mood for a little overtaking. Once, twice, no problem . . . and then I almost clip an oncoming car. She audibly draws in her breath. And yeah, maybe that was a bit close. I haven’t quite come to terms with the acceleration.

  Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?’ she asks hoarsely. Her fingers are gripping the edge of the seat.

  But there’s no need to panic. We’re not dead yet. ‘No, I think I’m getting the hang of it.’

  ‘You’re going too fast.’

  I put my foot on the brake, slow down, and try to look contrite. ‘Sorry.’ Perhaps I was speeding but the road’s so fucking dismal, so dark and gloomy, that I can’t wait to escape. The country’s all well and good but I’ve a sudden yearning for the bright lights. I might have fallen out of love with London but I crave noise, action, something to remind me that I’m still alive.

  I should never have come here in the first place. What on earth possessed me? I still can’t figure out if it was down to a whim or some deeper subconscious desire to revisit a place where I’d once been happy. Maybe I wanted to say a proper goodbye to Sarah. If that was the case, it didn’t pan out too well. Although, come to think of it, there were probably plenty of occasions when she wanted to give me a good slap too.

  Interrupting my thoughts Simone says quietly, ‘I owe you.’

  And that’s true enough. I didn’t have to go back. I could have taken the car, skipped out of town, and left her high and dry. But I’m nothing if not magnanimous. ‘That’s okay, I guess I owe you too. We can call it quits.’

  She pauses, frowns and then says, ‘I didn’t . . . I meant for the hotel – the bill.’

  Shit. Does she do this crap just to make me feel stupid?

  Well, two can play at that game. ‘Not to worry. They won’t notice we’re gone until tomorrow. We’ll be miles away by then.’

  Startled, she whirls round to face me. ‘What? What are you saying? God, Johnny, they’ll have us arrested, they’ll—’ She stops dead as she sees my expression.

  I’m grinning again. ‘Just call us Bonnie and Clyde.’

  It’s a while before she deigns to speak to me again. ‘Do you really think the Fosters will have another go?’

  I shrug. I was only using it as an excuse, as a plausible reason for a hasty departure, but it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. ‘Maybe. No point waiting around to find out.’

  ‘No,’ she agrees. Then glancing quickly over her shoulder, as if they might already be on our tail, she shudders. ‘Don’t you find that kind of . . . worrying?’

  Of course it’s bloody worrying but keeping my voice cool, almost indifferent, I reply, ‘I guess I’ll learn to live with it.’

  I like an opportunity to practise my tough no-man-scares-Johnny-Frank act. Although how convincing it is, with my face covered in bruises, my innards mashed and my ribcage screaming in protest every time I change gear, is another matter altogether.

  She gives me a look but doesn’t pursue the subject.

  Something occurred to me while I was in the process of making my earlier exit: if they have been following us around, then they’re probably presuming that Simone’s more than my personal chauffeur. Which means that she could be in danger too. Not that she’s my fucking responsibility or anything – I didn’t ask her to come with me – but if I deserted her, without a car, she’d be the perfect target for some back-door form of revenge.

  And I don’t need any more complications.

  I should have dumped her in London when I had the chance. Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow after I’ve seen Patrick. I’ll get a train and—

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asks suddenly, as if her female radar has sensed an imminent betrayal.

  How do women do that?

  I shake my head, the picture of innocence. ‘I was just wondering where we should stay tonight. It’s probably not a good idea to go back to the same hotel.’

  ‘We could go home,’ she suggests, almost pleadingly, ‘get some rest, a decent night’s sleep, and then drive into the City tomorrow.’

  I’m about to say no, no way – I don’t want to be within a mile of the Buckleys – when I’m struck by a few advantages to this plan. For one it would mean Simone safely deposited, no longer under my duty of care, and for two – well, I’ve still got unfinished business. Perhaps the recent run-in with the Fosters has reminded me of my own compelling need for vengeance. This could be my last opportunity to add to Jim’s misery, to watch him squirm, to push him ever closer to the edge.

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Really?’ She smiles, almost laughs, as if I’ve just offered her a trouble-free divorce.

  And now it’s too late to change my mind. Do I want to? No. It may be an unnecessary risk – I can only hope the cops don’t come calling – but it’s worth the gamble. One last evening to scare the fuck out of Jim before I scarper for good.

  I give her a sideways glance. ‘I hope this doesn’t mean that you’re tiring of my company.’

  She smiles again. ‘Not for a second,’ she replies, with her familiar edge – a delicate balance that’s neither blatantly insulting nor the slightest bit flattering. ‘How could you ever imagine it?’

  I lift my eyebrows. ‘You’ve got a point.’

  She lifts hers too in a mocking, almost perfect, reproduction.

  So this is our last journey together. In an odd kind of way, I’m going to miss her. Even the most aggravating of people can leave a gap in your life. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be on my own. But that’s better. It has to be better. I’ll take off tonight, in the early hours, when everyone’s asleep. I never was one for lingering farewells.

  ‘Look, could you do me a favour?’ I touch my forehead, on the spot where the dressing lies above my left eye. ‘Can we keep quiet about this, say I got in a scuffle or s
omething? I’ve had enough of the past – and, honestly, I can’t face an inquisition from Dee. It isn’t anything to do with anything else and . . . and it’s not going to help, is it? It’s only going to scare her.’

  She hesitates just long enough to betray her suspicions. She still doesn’t trust me. But the deal’s a fair one: in exchange for her silence, she gets to sleep in her own bed tonight. Eventually she nods. ‘Sure. If that’s what you want.’

  We’re within spitting distance of Essex when I pull in. I need to take a leak and grab some caffeine before stepping back inside the house from hell. She’s been asleep for the last hour, curled up with her face against the window. Slowly she blinks awake and peers at me.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Almost home,’ I say, encouragingly. ‘Do you mind stopping off for a minute?’

  I’m amazed this place is still here, a bleak backstreet sanctuary that in my day was most frequently occupied by smalltime villains, thieves and whores. It hasn’t changed much. The walls are still a smoke-tinted shade of cream, the atmosphere still furtive. Twenty pairs of eyes rise abruptly as we walk through the doors. Only the women are absent – too early for them perhaps – but if Simone’s aware of her solitary status, she doesn’t show it. She strolls over to the counter and orders two coffees. ‘One black,’ she demands, ‘no sugar.’

  I touch her arm. ‘I’m just going for a . . .’

  As if bodily functions are beneath her contempt, she wrinkles her nose and waves me away. I walk towards the rear of the room, my gaze drifting sideways, moving slyly over everyone present. But there’s no one I recognize. No one to acknowledge and no one to worry about. I visit the Gents and head quickly back.

  She’s taken a seat by the window. I slide in across the table. ‘Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?’

  Her eyes flicker over the grimy surroundings. I can almost see her flinch. ‘No thanks.’

  And there’s something to be said for middle class girls – even when they’re disgusted, they’re polite. I take a sip of coffee. ‘No, well, it’s not exactly the Ritz.’