The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  After a bit he leaves the path and heads towards the banks of the lake. Following dutifully in his wake, I remain docility personified, the perfect pet. I can only hope he doesn’t throw a stick and expect me to retrieve it.

  When we reach the edge, I stand beside him and wait. I’m getting used to waiting. He’s staring out across the water. It’s quiet here. People have more sense than to hang around in the freezing cold. I look at Johnny. He doesn’t look back. So I raise my eyes and gaze up at the heavens instead. The sky, close as a ceiling, is a sheer metallic grey. The snow has almost stopped, just a few faint flakes drifting down, but the air is still stinging. Shivering, I drop my head and bury my chin back into my scarf.

  ‘What’s the time?’ he asks abruptly.

  He’s got a watch of his own but as it’s clearly too much effort for him to take his hands out of his pockets, I glance down at my wrist. ‘Ten past ten.’

  He nods, grunts, and then instantly forgets my existence. Returning his attention to the lake, he frowns. For the next ten minutes he’s silent again, motionless, his blank eyes narrowing to some distant horizon. He doesn’t speak but his anger, his frustration, whatever it is that’s tormenting him, almost physically spills out around us.

  It’s at moments like this that I’m truly scared. I’ve hardly come to terms with his presence, never mind the complexities of his character – and there’s some serious grief there, not just anger but real vitriol, bitterness, a vicious resentment that I can’t begin to understand.

  Who the hell is Johnny Frank?

  I don’t get any clues from looking at his profile, at least no more than I’ve already garnered. All I know for certain is that something’s eating at his soul. It’s partly the obvious – prison, Sarah, the years he has lost and can never get back – but I’m sure there’s a missing piece, a frightening piece, a part of the equation that he’s keeping firmly hidden.

  I stand by the lake and shiver. I’m in the middle of Regent’s Park, in daylight, in a public place that should feel safe. But it doesn’t. I don’t. I’m scared of being with him. And I’m terrified of not being with him, of what might happen if he takes off, if he leaves me again. He’s done it once before – almost twice, if you count this morning.

  I should have let him go. God, that would have been so much easier. I should have stayed in the warm cocoon of the flat. I should never have walked down those stairs and confronted him. He’d have found a way out eventually, through one of the windows perhaps. And by now the fear, the agony, the responsibility, would be shared with Dee and Jim . . . and the police.

  I close my eyes.

  The Canada geese gather squawking at our feet and I begin to feel vaguely normal again. A man with a briefcase strides smartly along the path behind us, followed by another, and then by a couple walking a spaniel. Gradually Johnny seems to relax and as if nothing has happened he turns to look at me.

  ‘We should make a move,’ he insists brusquely, as if I’m the one who’s been palely loitering.

  We stroll back through the gate, past the cafe, and through the gardens.

  Although his mood has lifted he’s still frowning.

  ‘Problem?’ I ask softly.

  ‘Nothing you need worry about.’

  Which makes me bristle again. I don’t like being treated like a child. ‘You know, it’s been my experience that the moment someone tells you not to worry is precisely the time that you should.’

  As if my comment doesn’t warrant even the briefest of replies, he shrugs.

  We turn left on to the Broad Walk and I can’t stop thinking about the man in the cafe. I recognized him, of course, from our last excursion into London and the question escapes from my lips before I can prevent it. ‘Who is he, the man you just met?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Everybody’s somebody,’ I reply. ‘He must have a name at least.’

  Johnny’s upper lip curls. He doesn’t want to tell. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants me to stop pestering him, to shut up and leave him alone. But why should I? He’s not the only one with troubles. Marc’s out there somewhere, alone, afraid, relying on me to get him out of this horrific mess. I haven’t got time to tiptoe round Johnny’s finer feelings.

  As if he can outwalk my questions he’s moving faster now, tramping through the snow. Every few steps I have to run a little to catch up with him. ‘Who is he?’ I ask again. ‘Does he have the diamonds? Is he getting them for you?’

  Suddenly Johnny stops dead and whirls around to glare at me. His eyes fix on mine angrily. ‘Okay,’ he spits out, ‘if you have to know, if it’s that important to you, his name’s Patrick, Patrick Croft – and no, he doesn’t have anything to do with the diamonds.’ He pauses briefly. ‘He’s Sarah’s father. He’s my dead wife’s father.’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply, quickly lowering my gaze. There are some questions you always regret asking and this is one of them. I try to think of something adequate to say. The word emerges as a whisper. ‘Sorry.’

  He turns away, resuming his military march towards the gate.

  The next few hours are an almost identical re-run of our first London trip. Trudging from street to street, sitting in smoky cafes and noisy pubs, I keep my distance as he huddles in corners with his dubious mates. To no avail, I try to read their lips as they talk. With me, Johnny has remained distinctly taciturn but in the company of others his mouth doesn’t stop moving. Each man he meets I study discreetly – could this be the one with the diamonds, the one who has what Johnny wants? I watch their hands, waiting for the tiniest of movements. How big or small will the package be? I’ve got no idea.

  By half past three I’m growing tired and hungry. And I’m getting suspicious too. It isn’t possible that all these people, or even most of them, are connected to the diamonds – so what is he actually discussing? An escape route perhaps – a plane or train, a private boat moored in some isolated spot. Is he making arrangements for a new passport, a new identity? Or is that just the stuff of make-believe?

  It’s getting dark, the leaden sky descending like a lid on a box, when I wearily follow him out of one pub and we cross the road towards another. By the door I hang back, unwilling to spend yet another fifteen minutes pretending to read a newspaper that I’ve already scoured from cover to cover. What’s the point of me following him around? I’ve learned precisely zero. And it’s not as though my presence will prevent him clearing off. He could take to his heels right now and lose me in a minute.

  ‘How much longer?’ I ask.

  The thin unfriendly smile appears again. He’s clearly been saving it for me. ‘Twenty minutes.’ He shrugs. ‘Half an hour.’

  My heart sinks. I’ve drunk enough orange juice to drown everything but my sorrows. I stare at the grimy uninviting windows. From inside the sounds of a jukebox vie with the even more raucous boom of a crowd of drunken men. No, I can’t bear the thought of sitting on my own in yet another seedy pub whilst fending off the advances of every half-cut male who thinks a woman on her own must be desperate for his company.

  Glancing along the street, I see the bright lights of an internet cafe. Now that could be useful. Nodding towards the building, I say, ‘Look, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to get a coffee.’

  Johnny looks bemused, as if I’m the one who might be planning an escape. Before he can speak I raise my hand and walk away. ‘See you later.’

  I stride along the pavement and swing through the entrance into a warm and bustling room. Why I should feel safe here, I’ve no idea – but I do. There’s something comforting about the place. It might be the pervasive scent of coffee, of hot chocolate, or the gentle click, click, click of agile fingers on keyboards. There’s activity without too much noise, a feeling of communication, a sense of things being quietly and efficiently achieved.

  I buy a latte and thirty minutes of computer time. I sit down, sip my drink and stare blankly at the screen. Then slowly, in the enquiry box of the search engine, I type in two words: p
ink diamonds.

  The results appear in a matter of seconds. I click on a site that seems promising and start to read. As I scan down the page, the word that appears most frequently is rarity. Pink diamonds, especially the larger ones, are apparently scarce. What appears to be important is cut, carat, clarity and colour. And according to the experts, their extreme scarcity means that they are highly valued. Nothing too surprising there until my eyes fall on the prices. Jesus! The best specimens have been sold for over six million dollars at auction. What? Still peering at the screen, I slide slowly down in my seat. Even if Johnny’s aren’t the best, even if they’re far from the best, they must still be worth a fortune. No wonder he’s reluctant to give them up. And no wonder there’s someone out there prepared to kill . . .

  I try to focus, to concentrate on the information, on the ‘free passage of light’, the purity, the brilliance, the lack of inclusions, but it all just swims in front of me. Of course I always knew that good diamonds were very valuable, but these numbers, these millions of dollars, are beyond my comprehension.

  I take a deep breath, shut my eyes and open them again. Going back to the search engine, I type in diamond robberies and wait. Just as I’m scrolling through the most famous – Amsterdam 2005, Antwerp 2003, the Millennium Dome 2000, Cannes 1994 – Johnny walks through the door. Damn! Still years adrift from the date I’m looking for, I quickly close the window. So much for half an hour, he’s barely been ten minutes.

  He walks swiftly through the banks of computers and nods towards the screen. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘I was just checking my e-mail.’

  He smiles. ‘Any news?’

  I smile back. ‘Nothing much. How about you?’

  He shakes his head. Our smiles are false. We’re both avoiding the truth, prevaricating. He’s playing his game and I’m playing mine. The rules, if they exist, are utterly obscure. I’ve given him opportunities to walk away but he just keeps coming back. Why? If those diamonds are as valuable as I think they are, he isn’t going to exchange them for Marc.

  ‘So how does it work?’ he asks. He leans over my shoulder to stare intently at the screen. He’s close, too close. I can smell the damp wool of his coat and the very faint scent of aftershave. Funny how I didn’t notice the latter in the car – but then I wasn’t this near to him. It makes me uncomfortable. I want to shift away but that would look too obvious.

  He frowns at the information in front of him. ‘What do you have to do?’

  I forget sometimes that he’s been adrift for eighteen years.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ I point to the empty box of the search engine. ‘All you have to do is type in what you’re looking for, click on the button, and the computer will – well, should – come up with suitable matches.’

  My fingers hover on the keys while Johnny continues to frown. He does this so often that even when he stops the lines persist as shallow indentations. Probably the sites he’d like to see, the type he’s undoubtedly heard about, are not the kind he’d want to view in my company. Perhaps I should type in sex and give him a thrill . . . on the other hand, best not. He might keel over with excitement.

  Tired of waiting, I say, ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ I enter Canary Wharf and a few seconds later, the first ten of thousands of hits appear on the screen. ‘Then you can click on any of these headlines and go directly into the site.’

  ‘What about people, names?’ he asks.

  I point the mouse back towards the search engine. ‘It depends. Who do you want?’

  He hesitates.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down and have a go,’ I say, glad of the opportunity to move.

  But as if the computer might bite, he puts his hand briefly on my shoulder to stop me getting up, and shifts back a fraction. ‘Ted Ainsworth,’ he announces, spelling out the surname.

  It doesn’t mean anything to me. ‘Anything else – you know, like what he does, anything to narrow the field a bit?’

  Johnny chews on his lower lip while he thinks about it.

  I can understand the difficulty. Beyond the word shady, there’s little else to define most of his associates.

  ‘Lawyer,’ he eventually replies, surprisingly.

  ‘Yours?’

  He snorts. ‘If he was mine, sweetheart, I’d already know his address.’

  I let the endearment float over my head. Perhaps I’m getting used to it. Typing in lawyer after the name, I ask, ‘Is he likely to be in London?’

  He nods so I add that too.

  There are over six hundred hits and I slowly scroll down the screen. ‘Any of these seem likely?’

  Johnny leans forward again. Now he’s so close I can even hear him breathing. ‘Try that one,’ he says, pointing at a site for a firm called Ainsworth, Jolly & Co.

  As soon it comes up, he smiles. ‘That’s it. That’s the one.’ Taking a small black notebook from his pocket, he copies down the address. It’s a street not so far away in Euston and I know, as he glances at his watch, that we’ve got yet another visit to make.

  I’d like to take a moment to peruse the information in front of me – all I’ve gathered is that they are, unsurprisingly, a firm of lawyers – but Johnny’s already walking away. Without even a thank you.

  Outside, the snow has turned to a thin drizzly rain. The white paradise of earlier has melted to slush beneath our feet.

  ‘Why do you want to see him?’ I enquire as we make our way back to the car. ‘This Ted Ainsworth guy, what’s he got to do with anything?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Johnny?’

  But it’s pointless. I might as well be talking to myself. I could throw a tantrum, refuse to move until he tells me what’s going on – but I’m just too tired to bother. He’d only lie to me anyway, make up some cock-and-bull story. No, I’m better off keeping my head down and my eyes and ears open. Perhaps I’ll learn something useful in Euston.

  By the time we get back to my trusty Fiat, thankfully still parked where we left it – not that anyone would choose to steal the poor old thing, they’d have to be desperate – the evening rush hour has started. We make slow progress through the snarled-up traffic, inching along the streets. Johnny looks at his watch so often he starts to make me nervous.

  ‘They won’t close before five,’ I tell him. But I go ahead and jump the lights, infected by his air of urgency.

  It’s a quarter to by the time we pull into the forecourt. With the help of my A–Z, Johnny’s done a reasonable job of navigating. Only a single wrong turn when I narrowly missed hurtling down a one-way street. The glare of oncoming headlights lingers unpleasantly in my brain. I’m still holding my breath as I find a space, pull in and switch off the engine.

  He’s out of the door before I’ve even removed the keys.

  I quickly jump out after him.

  ‘It’s okay, you can wait here,’ he says.

  I slam the door and sigh. ‘God, we’re not going to have this conversation again are we? Don’t you ever get bored?’

  He glares at me across the top of the car. ‘Shit,’ he says, raising his eyes to the rain-filled heavens. ‘Simone, love, has anyone ever told you what a pain in the arse you can be?’

  ‘Frequently.’ I turn to look up at the building. It’s a modern, flashy-looking piece of architecture with lots of glass. I can see a jungle of greenery through the tall transparent frontage, a selection of flora dominated by the ubiquitous palm. I glance back at Johnny. After his initial enthusiasm, his eagerness to get inside seems to have diminished. He’s standing, staring up, shifting from foot to foot. I wave a hand. ‘So, what are we doing? Are we going in or are we just here to admire the view?’

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him look – well, not afraid exactly, but definitely uneasy. Maybe walking into a building full of lawyers reminds him of times he’d prefer to forget . . . or perhaps he’s got another reason to feel anxious. For a second, as he stares up at the windows, I have the impression he’s abo
ut to change his mind, to get back in the car again, to order me to drive away from here as quickly as we can.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  I don’t expect a response – I’m getting used to being ignored – but amazingly, after the briefest of hesitations, he actually replies, though it’s not an answer as such. ‘You know what I really hate?’

  It’s tempting to make a few suggestions – aggravating women, lawyers, cops, and any member of the Buckley family spring instantly to mind – but I keep them to myself.

  ‘Favours,’ he says with a long bitter sigh. ‘I really hate asking for fucking favours.’

  ‘What favours?’

  But he’s not listening any more. His eyes are fixed firmly on the doors he’s about to walk through, his thoughts a million miles away.

  ‘What favours?’ I gently prompt.

  But the moment has passed. He shakes his head, puts his hands in his pockets and walks towards the building. I fall in behind him.

  It’s abnormally warm, virtually tropical, in the reception area. My boots sink into deep-pile carpet. Everything about the place stinks of money. From the pristine decor and the leather sofas to the pretentious display of modern art on the walls, there’s a surfeit of luxury, an almost obscene exhibition of wealth. I glance down at my jeans spattered with mud. But let’s be honest, even garbed in the very latest of fashions, some snazzy little number by Versace, I’d still feel completely out of place.

  My inferiority complex hurtles into overdrive as my gaze settles on the receptionist. A cool, tall, blue-eyed blonde, she’s every woman’s nightmare: the Antichrist with breasts.

  Johnny, however, strolls over to the desk as if he has every right, and more, to be there. If he didn’t annoy me so much I might almost admire him. ‘Mr Ainsworth,’ he demands. ‘I need to see him.’

  The Ice Queen glances down at the open book on her desk. ‘Do you have an appointment?’