by Jessie Keane
‘Benedict, there’s not gonna be a next time.’
He gave her a glinting smile. ‘Shame,’ he said, and turned back to his desk.
119
When Lesley Deveney got to New York, she booked into a hotel not too far from Josh’s own gilt-fronted palace on Park Avenue. Her place was plainer but a hell of a lot cheaper. She settled in and then went out and walked a block to the Astoria, then she sat in the reception area with a copy of the New York Times, drinking coffee. Jet lag was setting in and she needed the coffee just to stay awake, but she still looked around her with interest at how the other half lived.
This was quite some hotel. Big chandeliers and acres of glossy marble. Huge potted palms and someone tinkling a tune on a grand piano. Classy waiters plying you with drinks, spruced-up bellboys zipping here and there with guests’ bags and suitcases piled high on golden trolleys, while the richly dressed clientele sauntered through en route to a late lunch or some high-end shopping.
After about an hour and a half, Josh Flynn appeared, stepping out of the lift and walking across reception and out to the big revolving doors. He was a good-looking man, if your tastes ran that way. Powerful. Sexy. A real silverback of a guy. Lesley hopped to her feet when she was out of his line of sight, chucked the paper down and hurried after him. Outside, the doorman pulled over a cab and she heard Josh say an address on East 76th Street to the Indian driver.
She flagged down her own cab and gave the man the same address. When they got there, haring through the teeming streets, she paid the driver and got out and looked around, hoping to spot Josh.
He was nowhere in sight.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered, and walked over to the building he’d asked for. She peered into a brightly lit hallway. It was clean, and empty. She pushed the door lightly, but of course it wouldn’t give. There was an intercom system on a brass side panel beside the door. She looked at the names there, pulled out her notebook and jotted them down. W. Humbert, I. Patton, J. Cleeve, F. Barlow, C. Milo, P. Schuster.
Six large apartments in there. It was a smallish brownstone building, not tall but old and lavish. There was a bell for the doorman but she didn’t want to risk him being the protective type who would alert anyone. So now all she could do was wait until Josh came back out. She found a diner over the road where she could keep an eye on the street, ordered fruit juice and a hamburger with fries – she was famished and feeling stuffy-headed, the precursor of a cold. You fed a cold, right? And starved a fever.
Eventually, she got tired of hanging around and gave it up. It didn’t look like Josh was going to come out. Whoever lived there, whichever apartment he was visiting, it was clear he was going to stay the evening, and probably the night too.
So why bother with the hotel?
Simple. Shauna Flynn was the possessive sort who would be phoning, keeping tabs on him. Lesley bet she was one of those emotionally blackmailing bitches who put those twee little notes in the poor bastard’s suitcase, that sort of thing. Reminding him of who he belonged to. Yeah, like a dog.
Hey, Rover! Heel!
Yawning, sneezing, she went back into the street and hailed a cab, thinking that it wasn’t very likely that Josh would stay overnight visiting a male friend, unless he was that way inclined. She was starting to think that Shauna was right. One of the residents in that building was a woman, and Josh Flynn was fucking her.
Big surprise.
In this job, every day of the week Lesley was on the trail of treacherous wives, cheating husbands. Nothing shocked her any more. She viewed the human race and its foibles with curiosity but detachment. Catch her getting involved with anybody, no way was she going for any of that shit. She did the job, took the money. None of it was any skin off her nose. Thinking she’d start again tomorrow, she went back to her cheap, charmless hotel, fell on to the hard mattress of her bed, and was asleep in minutes.
120
Lesley crawled out of bed at eight the next morning, feeling rough. She was still jet lagged and on top of that – this happened a lot when she travelled on planes, and everyone had been coughing on the flight – she had the itchy throat and thick head that told her that yes indeed, a cold was on its merry way, and it was going to be a bad one.
Still, she showered, dressed, had a room service breakfast, checked the contents of her tote bag – camera, notebook, pens, cash and cards – then went out and hailed a yellow cab and took up her station once again in the diner opposite the apartment block Josh had gone into last night. She ordered a coffee and an oversized cookie, and watched, and waited.
Christ, they were never coming out of there, she thought when it got to eleven and still no sign. She left the diner – there was a limit to the number of coffees any girl could drink before nature called, and what she didn’t want to happen was Josh coming out of that building with her in a rest room somewhere, missing the show. She sauntered about on the busy sidewalk outside, her head feeling achy and her limbs tired, thinking oh come on, come on.
She waited until nearly half past twelve, and there he was – at last! – coming out of the block. Her heart skipped a beat. Bingo! It was him. Wearing last night’s clothes. And, better yet – there was a sweet-faced blonde woman with him, a real honey, a bit too old for Lesley but definitely her type if only she could afford the upkeep on anything as gorgeous as that. The blonde was dressed in dark jeans, boots and a turquoise wool coat.
The couple started walking off along the sidewalk, arm in arm, and Lesley scrabbled in her bag and pulled out the Pentax. She focused. They looked happy. Well, she was about to put paid to that. She fired off as many shots as she could, and then they were behind a delivery lorry which had just pulled in to the sidewalk.
Fuck!
Lesley ran a few steps to get past the lorry, bumping into New Yorkers who said: ‘Hey, watch it!’ and ‘What you doin’, you crazy broad?’
She didn’t even hear them. She was totally engaged with her quarry. Josh was just emerging from behind the lorry with his lover on his arm. Lesley started shooting again, but she couldn’t get a decent shot of their faces, so she moved on, forging through the crowds. There was traffic all over the place, horns honking, it was mad here in New York City. And then yes, that was it, there was the shot that showed them for what they were. Josh was leaning down and kissing the woman, with her craning her neck up to receive his kiss.
The camera whirred, capturing shot after shot.
Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha!
121
‘Hiya, darling,’ said Shauna when she phoned through to Josh at his hotel in New York. She was getting impatient with the whole thing. That fucking Deveney woman had been quiet as the grave for days. What the hell was she paying her for? Meanwhile, Shauna was calling Josh herself, putting out feelers. And she was going to put a rocket up Lesley Deveney’s arse next time she deigned to call.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yeah, fine. You?’ asked Josh.
He was looking at Claire standing there, wearing just his white shirt, over by the window. It was way too big for her and the sunlight was making the thing transparent. She was so gorgeous.
Won’t be long, he mouthed. She smiled. He felt bad, talking to Shauna with Claire standing right here. Guilty and awkward and pissed off. He hated all this. And again, she’d slipped a note into his case. Love you, babe. He’d dumped it straight away.
‘How are you getting on over there? Training hard?’ asked Shauna.
‘’Course. The fight’s on Friday.’
‘You found a gym all right then, after the other one closed? Or is there one in the hotel?’
‘Yeah, I’m sorted,’ said Josh, getting irritated.
Claire was unbuttoning the shirt, her eyes holding his.
‘Miss you,’ said Shauna.
Ah shit, thought Josh. As soon as this fight was over, that was it. Finished. The kids were just going to have to suck it up.
Claire slipped the shirt off a
nd let it slither to the floor. Naked, gorgeous, she lifted her arms, displaying her fabulously full tits with their shell-pink nipples. All the while, her eyes held his.
Josh watched her and felt himself grow hard as rock. He shook his head at her, but he was smiling.
‘Kids OK?’ he asked. It was all he could think of to say.
The kids had their own lives now, just like he had his. Only Shauna was sitting back there in her grand house, expecting the world – the family – to revolve around her like she was the fucking queen or something. And it didn’t; not any more. They had all moved on, and somehow she just hadn’t noticed, or she hadn’t wanted to. Shauna was clinging on to a forgotten past, clinging on to him, and now it had to stop.
‘I miss them,’ he said, as Claire sauntered over to where he stood.
‘They miss you too. You’ll be back in time for Christmas though, won’t you?’
‘Shaun, I dunno . . .’
‘I really don’t know why you have to keep going back to the States. I told you – there are fights to be had here, Josh. You know that’s true.’
‘Shaun . . .’ He was so tired of hearing this.
‘Or is the truth that you’d rather be there, than here with me? Is that the truth, Josh?’
Stop it, he mouthed, but Claire was tugging at his belt now. He turned away, making a no, not now gesture with his free hand. Claire paused, smiling into his eyes.
‘Josh, is there someone else? Are you cheating on me?’ said Shauna.
Christ, he thought, winded by the suddenness of the accusation. With Claire standing right here in front of him. He felt almost like Shauna had X-ray vision, could see inside the room, right now.
‘Shaun . . .’ he started.
‘I know what you did, don’t forget that, Josh,’ said Shauna.
What?
Josh stared at the phone. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ he asked Shauna.
‘Andrew Meredith. That little job you did for Dave Houghton in the New Forest. You killed Andrew. Dave paid you to do it. You can’t have forgotten.’
Christ, was she talking about blackmailing him? Saying, stay with me or I’ll shop you?
Claire, sensing something was wrong, was frowning up at him but he was barely even registering her presence. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Give me a minute, can you?’ he whispered.
He saw the puzzlement in her eyes but she left the room without argument, snatching up his shirt and disappearing into the bathroom. Josh turned his attention back to his wife.
‘Listen, Shauna – I know what you did too.’
‘Meaning?’
Josh lowered his voice. ‘You shot two of the Cleaver brothers dead, Shaun. You forgotten that?’
‘Hey – you helped me out with that, have you forgotten that, you bastard? I saved your fucking life, incidentally. You ought to be thanking me. Instead, you’re flinging that back in my face and fucking off to America. We put them away. You and me. Both of us.’ Now she was shouting down the phone at him. ‘So you start that shit with me and we’ll go down together. They can find whatever’s left of the Cleavers and I’ll be done for, but you know what, Josh? You will be too, because I’ll sing like a fucking canary.’
Josh was silent, his mouth suddenly dry.
The venom in this woman. The hatred.
‘What did you do to Claire?’ he burst out. He was sweating now. He was Fearless Flynn and he was scared of no man. But this madwoman on the end of the phone, whose voice pierced his brain like knives? Yes. Right now, she scared him.
‘What?’ That stopped her in her tracks.
‘Claire Milo. She vanished the night we left the camp. You know that. You hated her because she was going to marry me. Did you do something to her? Or was it your fucking boyfriend Jeb Cleaver?’ Josh knew what she’d done. He shouldn’t be saying this, baiting her, but the words were pouring out of his mouth like a collapsed dam, he couldn’t help it.
‘What the f—’
‘And Philippa. Dave’s wife. You hated her and – surprise, surprise – she’s dead, did you know that? I met him in the boozer and he told me. She drowned in the river. Was that you too, you poisonous bitch?’
There was total silence.
Josh was breathing hard. He closed his eyes, steadied himself. Shit, he had to stop this. Had she hung up?
‘Shaun . . . ?’ he said at last.
‘If you’re screwing some little cow over there, you’re going to be sorry,’ she said.
The chill threat in her voice made his flesh creep.
‘Bye, Shaun,’ he said, and slammed the phone down.
He was shaken. Stupid, she was thousands of miles away. But he’d felt her presence like a curse, right here with him. Drawing in gulps of air, he went over to the window, stared out at the skyscrapers, standing hazy in the weak late-afternoon sun. Then someone slipped their arms around him from behind and he recoiled in shock.
‘Josh? Honey, you OK?’
It was Claire, and she was watching him with concern.
Josh drew her close against him. ‘She thinks something’s going on,’ he said in the warm circle of her arms, crushing her to him in a bear hug.
‘Well,’ said Claire against his chest, alarmed at the shivers she could feel coursing through him. She felt scared for him, and for herself, too. Shauna – even at a distance – still put the shits up her. ‘She doesn’t know that, does she. You can sue for divorce like you said and put it all behind you. It’s going to work out. You’ll see.’
But Josh couldn’t believe that. He clung to Claire, loving her for her efforts to calm him. It was as if she was the strong one and he the weak, all of a sudden. All he wanted now was to get in the ring on Friday and win the fight, then he would get back to England and sort this mess out, once and for all.
122
The fight was set up in one of the Constantinou brothers’ venues. There must have been a thousand people crammed in there, and to hell with fire regs. Spiro and Vicky were in, sitting in the front row with Suki and Claire. It was hot as hell in the club, and the ring was brightly lit. There were huge banners up, red on black, shouting THE VIKING v THE KING OF THE ENGLISH GYPSIES.
‘I don’t want to be there,’ Claire had said to Josh. She hadn’t seen him fight since 1975 and she wanted to keep it that way.
‘Don’t feel you have to, OK? But I’d like you to come,’ he said.
So – reluctantly – she’d agreed to be there. But when Claire saw Josh come into the ring with Spiro’s younger brother Nikos acting as his second, and when she saw the height and the mountainous width of the blond Icelander he was to fight, she wished she hadn’t.
It was too late now. Always one for a theatrical flourish, Spiro had hired two bikini-clad blondes with huge plastic tits and no hips to hold up the round number signs, and he had encouraged Josh to have FEARLESS picked out in big gold letters on the waistband of his red silk shorts. A bow-tied referee was in there, saying he wanted a good clean fight, no holding, no low blows, and were they ready? This wasn’t regular boxing, all gloves and gum shields; this was bare-knuckle and brutal. The fight wasn’t ten rounds and then stop and if both were still standing, score on points; this was fighting each round up to twenty, or even beyond that – until one of them dropped.
Josh nodded, bumped his fist against the other fighter’s hand, and then the bell rang and they were off.
Josh started pounding lefts into the Icelander’s midriff, then the Icelander shot out a perfect right cross to the chin that sent Josh skidding back on his heels into the ropes. Josh shook his head to clear it and then he stormed back in, throwing six, seven, eight jabs. The blond Icelander retaliated with another right cross that clunked against Josh’s skull like a sledgehammer.
‘Jesus!’ muttered Claire, Suki on one side of her, Vicky on the other. They all held hands and watched with bated breath.
‘He barely felt it,’ Vicky told Claire over the roaring noise of the crowd.
&nb
sp; ‘How can you say that?’ Claire shot back. ‘Christ, I felt it.’ She was getting flashbacks to that night when Josh had fought Matty O’Connor. This was horrible.
But Josh was ducking and weaving his way back in again, landing punch after punch, sending a brisk middle-knuckle shot into the Icelander between his lips and his nose. The man staggered back, blood dripping. He shook his head like a wounded ox, but charged in again and was met by a bull-hammer blow between the eyes from Josh’s left hand.
The Icelander reeled back and went down. A massive roar went up from the watching crowd. Josh was the favourite, everyone wanted him to win, and this looked like it.
But the Icelander was tough, just like Spiro had promised. He pulled himself back on to his feet and came storming in at Josh again, landing wild punches, holding on to Josh when his own feet went wobbly beneath him, pounding away at Josh’s torso.
The referee pulled the Icelander back.
‘No holding!’ he bellowed.
As the referee yanked the Icelander back again he took another swing, landing a right punch to the bone behind Josh’s ear before he could get his guard up.
‘Dirty bastard!’ shouted Spiro, leaping from his chair.
Josh was staggering on his feet all of a sudden. The Icelander came in fast, punched Josh hard on the left cheek and then the right. Josh stepped back, unsteady, and swung a right but missed and overbalanced. He went crashing on to the mat.
‘Josh!’ Claire was on her feet.
A roar went up. The favourite was down. The referee held the blond giant back and started the countdown.
‘One! Two! Three!’
Josh wasn’t moving.
‘Get up. Get up!’ Vicky was yelling in Claire’s ear.
‘Four! Five! Six!’
Jesus, he’s out for the count, thought Claire, hugging herself with anguish, watching Josh laid out there. Everyone in the room was shocked. The favourite was down!
‘Seven! Eight! Nine!’
‘Get up, Josh, you bloody fool!’ roared Spiro.
