The Consequence of Love

by Sandra Howard

  Shelby would pitch up later, he was sure. To be feeling such impatience was disturbing – anyone would think he fancied him, Hugo sneered to himself. In reality he was far less enamoured of Shelby these days; the laid-on charm, the way he had seemed to light up the place, had worn thin. Old memories had surfaced. He remembered once seeing Shelby whispering into a man’s ear, brushing cheeks while his forefinger had been drawing sensuous circles on the man’s hand. He could glide between the sexes with ease, he’d sleep with anyone if the banknotes flowed. Hugo shuddered to think of Shelby’s elegant fingers resting on his arm the previous Sunday, as they negotiated terms; he felt revolted recalling the light pressure of those fingers, yet the deal had been vital to him, the only way he could get by.

  His feeling of queasiness was always close to the surface, ever since Nattie’s rejection on a night that was branded on his mind. When she’d shrunk from his touch he’d known it had been nothing to do with her need of a few nights off, he had sensed even then that his life could be falling apart. And he was right, it had done, God how it had. He was finished, fucked, crawling from one day to the next, feeling like a mollusc without a shell, easy meat for an arch predator like Shelby.

  That was the grimness of where he was at, being bled dry and degraded. His association with Shelby wasn’t just a pathetic bit of risk-taking; Shelby had him where he wanted him, dangling, screaming for ever more stuff. Hugo loathed being so dependent, feeling like a prostitute in thrall to a pimp.

  What about other sources? There was that girl, that messed-up kid, who sold coke and crack in packets of Walkers crisps. He’d had sex with her years ago, he remembered. They’d got high together in the days before Nattie had helped him get clean. That girl had been a full-on crack-addict. God knew where she was now, though, or what kind of a state she’d be in.

  Would Shelby bring crack as well as coke? He’d have a supply tucked away in an inner pocket or some orifice of his, no doubt, and he wouldn’t be light on coke. ‘Just a line,’ he always said. ‘One line never did anyone any harm.’

  That was true in a sense. Not on a weekend when he had the children to care for, but a line wasn’t harming him during the week. A line or two had helped him survive the stress and his terror of ballsing up Bosphor Air. It had helped him win over that skinny travel editor, Melanie, on the Courier. Spiky Melanie was a goer; she would have guessed with all his exhilarated chatter and flirting that he was pepped up, but whether from curiosity, fascination or approval, she’d signed up for the Bosphor Air press junket, which was all that mattered. Brady seemed surprised and pleased with how things were going, but he’d probably sussed out the Amber situation and given her the credit.

  Three hours at least to kill before there was any chance of Shelby showing. The coffee-spoon remains of the coke wouldn’t last long. Would Amber help to pass the time? She’d be home from seeing her mother and expecting a call. They could smoke a joint or two. She wouldn’t be out of dope now that he’d put her in touch with Shelby. Hugo sensed she wasn’t a smoker, too cautious and keen to climb the Tyler’s pole. She did it for him, to get closer. He felt bad about that; he wasn’t treating her right.

  She minded about Melanie, who’d already done a positive piece on Bosphor in the Courier. Amber liked to be his fucking saviour, not have him managing on his own. She nagged on about the need to make a clean break with Nattie. It was coming anyway, she pressed, and surely his pride was at stake? What pride? He loved Nattie. Hugo thought of Amber saying he should be first in, telling Nattie to fuck on off and let him get on with his life. ‘Think what a better place you’d be in, free of the strain. You owe it to me,’ Amber had said, turning soulful eyes on him. ‘This is no way for any of us to live, even your bloody wife.’

  Hugo reached home. He snorted the last of his supply, waited a minute or two till the potent, good-mood effect gave him all the energy he needed to make his call to Amber.

  Home again three hours later, his spirits were winding down, the fading effects of Amber’s dope making him nervy and introspective. Christ, she’d said she loved him – that wasn’t in the script. Shit, shit, what was he going to do? He’d set too much store on the thickness of her pale, freckled skin. Amber was hardly sensitive, never seemed to twig that he saw her out of desperation, guilt-driven thanks for keeping him afloat. How the fuck was he going to get her off his back? God, what a mess.

  Shelby texted. He’d be half an hour, no more. Hugo poured himself a whisky.

  His phone tinged again. It was a text from Nattie. Can we meet? We need to talk. Tuesday, five-thirty, if you can manage it, while Jasmine’s there?

  He stared at his phone till the screen went blank. He brought up the message again. He’d been waiting, marking time for three months, but the next forty-eight hours would be harder than all that time put together. How was he going to survive? And for what – the death blow? Nietzsche said hope was the worst of all evils; it prolonged torment. But if he stopped hoping, his torment wouldn’t just be prolonged, it would be unending.

  Leaving early on Tuesday was going to be tricky; he’d have to switch a Palmers department store general meeting. Christine wouldn’t be pleased, but he’d have put off the Queen, Prime Minister or American President if need be. He wasn’t giving Nattie any chance of an out, nor waiting a moment longer to hear his fate.

  He texted her back, pulse racing as he jabbed at his phone. Tuesday’s fine. Make it nearer six. Let yourself in. It’s your home.

  The doorbell rang.

  Hugo walked slowly to the front door. He was suddenly less desperately impatient than usual for Shelby’s arrival; only Nattie could have managed to distract him from his hungering need. But Shelby was a Pavlovian trigger and Hugo’s heart pumped fast; he needed fresh supplies and Shelby’s mantra was ringing in his ears: ‘One line never did anyone any harm.’ But a single line wasn’t going to last him an unconscionable forty-eight hours. He craved the crack experience, laying his hands on a few of those precious stones, ‘jujube babies’, the crisp-packet girl used to call them; he ached for the sweet, violent shock of being thrown back in his chair.

  Shelby breezed in with a bottle of Scotch in one hand, champagne in the other and smelling of rich soft leather along with some discreet scent that was too ferny. He was looking very, very pleased with himself, and Hugo wondered why, feeling disturbed.

  He held out the whisky bottle, which Hugo snaffled gratefully, and put the other bottle down on the hall table, taking off his jacket and patting it proudly.

  ‘How do you like my new Givenchy bomber jacket? Cost nearly two grand.’

  ‘Who’d have guessed?’

  ‘Now, now!’ Shelby draped the jacket with appropriate reverence on the banister post, retrieved his bottle and made for the kitchen, calling back, ‘I’ll stick with champagne.’ Hugo followed and found suitable glasses, pouring his whisky while Shelby popped the cork. It hit the ceiling, causing Hugo to jerk his hand and spill precious Scotch, but he grabbed a glass in time to catch the fizzing champagne.

  Shelby took a few sips, looking round. ‘Bit of a mess this place, isn’t it?’ He was being quite restrained, in fact. The Christmas biscuit cooking had left a trail in the already mucky kitchen. ‘You’ve got a cleaner, I hope,’ Shelby went on. ‘You need one.’ He picked up his bottle. ‘I’m taking this to the sitting room. I’ve eaten – since you’re never much of a host. I’ve got a supper circuit going, I know which daddies have sent their girls to Leiths cookery school and where’s best to get fed. What about you, Hugo, old darling,’ he said, as an afterthought, ‘you eaten? Has the sylph-like Amber done her stuff in the kitchen and wherever else?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Hugo said, clunking some ice into his whisky and following with his bottle, ‘except that Amber’s got too keen. Trouble is, she covers for me at Tyler’s. She could make life pretty good hell there and do me in if I told it to her straight. A woman scorned and all that.’ Should he be opening up to Shelby? It was risky enough on a good
day, but the Amber problem was much on his mind.

  ‘We can’t have you losing your source of income,’ Shelby laughed. ‘Better keep Amber sweet then. No point being wimpish and coming clean. I’d use her for all she’s worth. Keep the relationship like your kitchen, a nice dirty mess. And a line or two will help things along, of course, it never—’

  ‘I know,’ Hugo snapped, irritated, ‘never did anybody any harm.’ Shelby would always come out with it. ‘You seem in high spirits tonight,’ he said more amenably. ‘Done some good trade? How good a deal can we cut on some coke and a bit of crack?’

  Shelby was settled in an armchair. He rested his glass and gave a wide grin. He had very white teeth, extraordinarily blue eyes. ‘That’s my boy!’ He laughed, chucking back a hank of his black hair. ‘That’ll do you a power of good – or bad. You like a bit of bad, though, don’t you?’

  ‘Not much, but a lump or two of crack would help me along.’

  ‘How’d it be if we settle for fifty quid a gram for the coke and twenty a rock of crack? I’ve got a few rocks on me, you’re in luck.’

  It didn’t sound too harsh a deal. Hugo sorted his cash, always had to be cash, and by the time he looked up, Shelby had produced a few twists of white paper and five loose stones from some unknown safe haven about his person.

  He sat back and picked up his glass. ‘So, want to know why I’m in such a good mood?’

  ‘Well, you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve just ensured that Ahmed Khan will be getting a nice stream of hate publicity in a few days or so. I’ve been setting it up, should get off the ground by about Tuesday and build fast. By the end of the week the little turd, his name, and a photo too, with any luck, will be emblazoned and exposed. That’s the joy of social media – you drop a match . . . that’s all it takes. He’ll be ashes, charred remains, the fucking bastard.’ Shelby grinned again. ‘So you should be pleased with me all round tonight,’ he said.

  Hugo knew he was serious and it sounded bad. However violent his jealousy, he was horrified, shocked to the core; it could clearly put Ahmed at risk of his life.

  His pulse raced and his stomach contracted while instinct told him to play it cool, to keep stringing Shelby along and keep him boasting. ‘I can see you’ve got scores to settle and I detest the man for what he’s done, coming back with a single aim to prise Nattie away now he’s ready to settle down or whatever, but—’

  ‘But what? Don’t you want him out of the way?’

  ‘Shit, Shelby, of course I do, but if you’ve made it impossible for him to live here Nattie will go after him, take my children and run.’ Hugo felt sick. She might even have been deciding to stay married . . . What had Shelby done? ‘You don’t even know his name or where they’re living,’ he said, praying Shelby hadn’t found out. ‘Even I don’t know his actual new identity.’

  ‘I know where they live – in his old flatmate’s house. I remember meeting Jack Wright at parties way back, before that alien piece of rancid shit your wife’s so keen on set me up, he and his tame rag, the Post. Nothing dirtier than entrapment.’

  ‘Of course you’re bitter,’ Hugo said tightly, beginning to lose his bravura, appalled to think Shelby knew where Nattie lived, ‘but you’d painted him as a terrorist and put his life in imminent danger with that interview you gave – I know all about it, Nattie’s told me – so Ahmed was bound to have axes to grind.

  ‘However did you find out where they’re living?’ he asked, trying to cool the criticism and adopt a marvelling tone. He wanted to keep up a façade, sound awed and impressed, not in a panic; even in his woozy, wound-down state he knew he had to find out everything he could and not let Shelby dry up.

  ‘Piece o’ cake! I saw the name of Lily’s school on one of her books in your kitchen. I simply followed Nattie back from her school run one day and checked out the owner of the house.’

  Hugo stared; he felt invaded and abused. Was all of it his fault? The smug look on Shelby’s self-absorbed face was more than he could bear.

  ‘Gosh, private dick stuff,’ he said flippantly, while the words stuck in his throat. ‘But I can’t imagine how you can have just set up a media storm, just like that.’

  ‘That’s easy. I’ve followed a bunch of Muslims on Twitter who sound like they’re hard-line extremists, given myself a nicely appropriate Twitter name, and I’m getting a couple of hash tags going too, #Traitor and #wifesnatcher. I can tailor comments to #Traitor that will give some of those charming guys a neat lead to Lambeth. Word soon spreads.’ Shelby had an even greater beam of complacency on his face.

  Hugo felt shivering horror as a slow dawning of the enormity of the risk overtook him. Nattie could be knifed along with Ahmed, kidnapped . . . And terrorists didn’t play by the Queensberry Rules, even the children’s lives could be on the line. What could he do? She had to be warned.

  ‘And,’ Shelby went on, ‘once the fact of him being back here is known, skulking into the country when even the fucking authorities told him to stay away; once people are Tweeting, attaching photos – there aren’t many, but one’s enough – and Facebooking about it, then the papers may pick it up too. They couldn’t before when they were expected to honour the code and not use his name, but now, if his name was out there . . . A media storm, even a little one, is news.’ Shelby’s grin held pure malice. ‘It’s his turn to be set up now, the cunt. Let him see what it’s like.’

  ‘No one could call him my favourite guy,’ Hugo said desperately, wishing his head was clearer, ‘but Christ, Shelby, you could get the man killed, Nattie put at risk too. Ahmed saved her life, for God’s sake, and her mother’s, the lives of thousands. Imagine if that bomb had gone off. You want to be responsible for his death?’

  ‘Calm down, dearie, you’ve gone quite white. The bugger will scarper off fast, back to whatever shithole part of the world he came from, you can be sure. Serve him right anyway, if one of those Brit-haters took a pot shot at him. He’s one of their kind and he’s had it coming. It’s payback time.’

  Hugo stood up, clenching his fists. ‘I think you should leave now,’ he said. He had to get Shelby out of the house; he felt cold hatred such as he’d never known before.

  ‘Don’t mess with me,’ Shelby said easily, without moving. ‘I can always get you too, any day.’

  ‘I shouldn’t try.’ Hugo felt giddiness coming in waves, the room was shifting, shivers travelling down his spine, but he hung on and found some grit. ‘It would do you no good at all. What you’re setting up sounds like incitement to kill. So will you go now? Or do I have to call the police? I don’t mind being done for drugs if it brings some protection for Nattie and our children, but it puts you in a bit of a spot.’

  Shelby rose and stretched back his shoulders lazily. He ambled into the hall, picked up his Givenchy leather bomber jacket and strolled to the front door, where he turned with a sneer. ‘You’re a failure, Hugo, and you know it, a wimp. Get a life. Get shot of Nattie, she’s bringing you down. Call me if you need anything, of course, any nuggets. No hard feelings, old man.’

  He left with a swagger, though Hugo sensed he’d been taken aback; brought up a bit sharp, he felt, from the set of those black-bomber shoulders as Shelby turned out of the gate. He realised then how violently he was trembling. He’d been within a whisker of lashing out; his fists were still clenched.

  He shut and bolted the door. He had Victoria’s mobile number in his phone, which he pulled out of his pocket, calling her impulsively without giving any thought to what to say. Nor had he looked at the time and cursed, seeing it was almost midnight. There was no answer, which was unsurprising – no less frustrating, though.

  He left a message. ‘Sorry about this late call, but can you tell William rather urgently that I believe Shelby Tait has started a Twitter campaign against Ahmed, and it could be dangerous. I don’t know if there’s anything that can be done?’

  For all his discomfort and awkwardness in William’s company Hugo
respected his powerhouse qualities; he edited a huge-circulation newspaper and if anyone could spike Shelby’s evil doings, William was best placed.

  He sent a text as well. He debated contacting Nattie, but her mother would tell her and Nattie would ask awkward questions about Shelby, which he couldn’t face. She would never forgive him. He leaned against the wall in the hall, shaking, praying to God that there was a way. By now the drugs in his system had lost their effect, leaving him quivering, dry-mouthed and craving more.

  A fresh wave of nausea swept in and erupted, he just made it to the downstairs loo, kneeling in front of the pan and retching up everything in his stomach. Cold sweat sprang out on his brow. His hands were clammy and his shoulders still heaved with convulsive jerks.

  He staggered back to the sitting room, legs hardly supporting him, and collapsed into the armchair where his glass and the inroaded bottle of Scotch were within reach. Hugo poured himself half a tumbler, releasing the unmistakable, irresistible aroma. The rich, gold-brown liquid glinted in the glass and burned comfortingly as he took sips. His mind felt clearer. Shelby had made a rare misjudgement, he felt, telling him what he’d done in that cocky, bragging way. He’d been so sure that spaced-out Hugo, eaten up with jealous hatred, would be pleased as Punch, delighted to think of Ahmed being forced out of the country. Shelby must have expected to have a load of praise poured on his glossy, devious head.

  Hugo stared at the twists of paper and crack. The feeling that everything was his fault was lodged deep. He’d let Shelby into his life again, let himself be befriended; he’d become one of Shelby’s dependent flock, those well-heeled suckers all over London, helplessly shelling out.

  His mind kept churning as he tried to think more rationally. Had he overreacted? Was the threat really that great? Surely a few Tweets weren’t going to lead Ahmed’s enemies right to his rented door. It was no good, didn’t wash; he couldn’t minimise the dangers nor lessen his despairing sense of guilt.