by Tim Heath
“But we know who he is now, and he’s no longer hiding under some rock. We can call him in plain sight, surely?”
“Meet in person?”
“Why not? He’s listed against these businesses. I’m sure Sasha could get us in once more, or we catch him in Monaco the next time he’s there.”
“You think he would speak to you?”
“There’s only one way of finding out. I don’t see what choice we have now. We’ve nothing to lose by trying.”
“You think?” But she was joking with him, the two leaving the office, lunch calling.
They’d stayed together for two more weeks, before Phelan had felt it was okay to leave his family––who were still in southern California––as he took the flight that would bring him back to where it all started for him, in London. His one indulgence now that he was a multi-millionaire was to travel the whole way in first class.
More than anything else, he felt like an imposter as he sat there. He loved the comfort, the ease of boarding, the onboard service, but amongst his fellow passengers that he shared the airport lounges with and the exclusive in-flight areas, he didn’t fit in. He vowed not to bother travelling first class again––the stress of feeling the odd one out wasn’t worth the added luxury. He would downgrade to business class in future.
He landed in London the following day, his body tired, needing sleep despite it being the morning already. He crashed at an expensive hotel––an indulgence he didn’t mind too much, as one could hide away in the room if wanted––enjoying the luxury without fellow guests taking any notice.
Four days after landing, his body was finally adjusting from months on the west coast of America, and he felt ready to face his demons. He was going to re-enter the life of Maggie Thompson, a woman he knew had never got over him.
Matvey had sent him the information on her current whereabouts––she’d moved companies, and was doing very well for herself since they’d had their five-month affair, a time when his first child was only one. Again the shame surfaced, the disgust he felt in himself, and yet here he was, walking into something potentially even more severe, willingly too, though only after choosing the lesser of two evils.
Matvey had said he was helping him when he’d sent Phelan up-to-date information the previous week, but Phelan knew it was all part of the Russian’s way of keeping control over his subject even though Matvey had not yet told him precisely what he wanted him to do.
Christmas lights were up all around the streets of London––Harrods and Hamleys, two famous shops, dazzling their would-be customers with creative decorations. He remembered bringing the kids there two years before, their first experience of the streets of central London during the chaos of the Christmas season. Another pang of guilt pressed through his veins, engulfing his whole body for a moment like some intravenous drug. The moment passed.
As five o’clock came, the chimes of Big Ben heard sounding the passing of another hour in the distance, Phelan waited near Tate Britain across the street from where Maggie worked. He watched every person who was starting to exit the building, willing it not to be her––that somehow she would not appear (or disappear in fact) and he would be let off this soul destroying task. As the first chimes of six started ringing out, she came out. The December air was mild, for which he was thankful after his long wait. She looked as pretty as ever, not changed one bit from the girl he remembered, though it had been over seven years.
She headed across the road, the other direction to where he’d been standing, and down a side street. He followed her carefully, though there were enough other people out to not make it obvious and as nightfall engulfed them all, it gave him an element of disappearing into the darkness. She crossed over, passing Westminster Abbey on her left and the Houses of Parliament on her right. Passing a statue of Winston Churchill, she turned right, and Westminster underground station came into view, Phelan only twenty metres behind her as she went down the steps.
She sped through the barriers. Phelan took a moment to realise that he could use his debit card to get through the gate quickly then raced off in the direction he’d seen her go. Matvey had given him her home address––a different one from the home they’d conducted most of their affair in––and this was in West London, in Fulham, so he gambled that she was heading for the District Line, one of three lines that serviced that particular station.
As the rush of air signalled the arrival of another train, he spotted her towards the front of the platform, the crowds already quite thick, the train itself reasonably crowded, but he’d seen it a lot worse. He’d once travelled with the family, picking a Premier League match day, tens of thousands of football fans adding to the already heaving rush hour commuter numbers. He’d made a note never to use the underground at such a time again, and though it was the rush hour now, as he boarded the same carriage as Maggie from a different door, he was glad it wasn’t a match day.
Four stops later he saw her leaving the train. He waited for her to pass his door, before dropping out a few seconds after, the doors already making the sound that they were about to close. A couple of dozen people were ascending the stairs back up to street level.
Phelan kept his eye on Maggie, dressed well as always, a black skirt visible under her winter coat, a pink scarf around her neck, black hat on top of her blonde hair, a splash of colour completing the hat with an orange and red bobble on top. She’d always been one for mixing colour and function.
A few streets from where she lived, she ducked into a café, Phelan pausing by the window, as Maggie took a seat at the back, the café only relatively busy at that moment. She took off her coat, hanging it on a stand, oblivious to the fact she was being watched closely from the street. Maggie wore a white silk blouse with her skirt, simple but smart. She looked the part.
Phelan crossed the road––lingering too long in the doorway of the café would only draw attention from someone at some point.
Standing in the doorway of an empty terraced house on the other side, he could see Maggie and the rest of the café with ease, and only moved back across the road when he saw she had paid up, her coat going back on. He waited outside the door, picking his timing perfectly to bump into her as she came out––the look on her face priceless.
“Jesus, it’s you!” she said, hand over her mouth, blue eyes wide with astonishment.
“Maggie Thompson. You haven’t changed a bit,” Phelan offered, doing his best to act surprised himself, though he was no match for her at that moment. She blushed at the sound of her name on his lips. He hadn’t forgotten her then.
“Bloody hell! How are you?”
“I’m well Mag, thanks.” He’d been the only man––the only person––she’d ever allowed to call her that. It had been his unique name for her. She’d almost forgotten how it sounded coming from his soft Irish accent.
“What are you doing here? I mean, it’s been seven years.” Once more the guilt rushed through his body. He knew exactly how long it had been.
“I was doing some business in the area. You?”
“I live around the corner and come into this café at least twice a week.”
“What are the chances?”
“I know…I mean, of all the people to bump into you know…so, what have you been up to?” She eyed him suspiciously, though everything inside her wanted to desperately make the connection that had so painfully been lost, despite the fact he’d caused her such hurt. Phelan quickly rattled off some of the backstories he’d invented. The co-workers he’d not heard from, the companies he’d worked for, finishing with the firm where he’d made his millions. She’d thankfully not heard of it, though it was in fact real. He wasn’t going to take any chances.
It was starting to feel much colder now, standing there as they were, though Maggie was warming to him the more he filled her in on life.
“Where’s your wife and kids then?” She’d said it; finally, her eyes pleading him to answer with a response she would like.
“She’s not finally kicked you out, has she?” Maggie joked though it hurt even to remind herself of the fact he’d been married all along, something she hadn’t known when they’d first started sleeping together. Phelan said nothing. “Were you on your way somewhere?” she said, wanting to keep the conversation flowing.
“No, actually, just finished.”
“Look,” she said, going against her better judgement to simply end anything before it went any further, but she knew from the moment she bumped into him, she wasn’t that strong. “You’re welcome to come back to mine for a drink if you like, I’m not a bad cook either.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“No trouble. I would have to get something for myself, anyway,” Maggie said, clearly lying. He’d seen her eat a hearty looking salad and a slice of cake with her coffee.
“Okay, seeing as you’re eating anyway, then.”
She led the way, Phelan making sure he waited until she turned, weaving her way through the side streets until she walked up to her front door.
“This is your gaff?”
“It is indeed. Where are you living now?” Maggie said, leading him into the narrow hallway, a few letters and some junk mail laying on the doormat.
“I’ve been travelling.” She didn’t respond to his non-answer but understood enough from it to know not to pry any further.
“Hang your coat on the rack and give me a moment to clean up. I wasn’t expecting guests when I left for work early this morning.”
He walked into the lounge as he heard a bottle of wine opened, two glasses standing on her designer kitchen units. The house was sparsely furnished but in excellent taste.
She handed him a glass, before moving back into the kitchen, pouring some dip––probably hummus––into a bowl, mounds of bread and various sliced vegetables arranged around the outside. Bringing it all into the dining room, she placed it on the table, before collecting her glass of wine from the kitchen.
“Please, sit down,” she said, motioning Phelan to a chair at the table, taking the one opposite him for herself. She took a large swig of wine as she sat down. They talked for the next twenty minutes, Maggie not once touching the food which Phelan was helping himself to, having himself not eaten for hours and been standing outside waiting for her. She’d refilled their glasses a few times already and was onto a second bottle before they moved into the lounge. Maggie put some James Blunt on––he’d never been able to stand her taste in music, and so it continued. She sat next to him on the sofa.
“It’s so good to see you again, Phelan,” she said, the wine already reddening her cheeks, something he’d always found amusing about her.
“You never know who you’re going to bump into,” he said.
“What was it that brought you to this part of town again? Work you said, was it?”
“I might have been a little generous with that term. I don’t work anymore. Retired early.”
“Retired? You must be kidding me?”
“No, I'm serious. Made my millions, as I said earlier, in the stock market and finally decided to get out.”
“When did that happen?”
“After we…” but he couldn’t say it. Maggie had got the point.
“And in that short time, you’ve managed to make your millions and retire?”
“It’s all still really new, Mag, I haven’t got used to it myself yet, either. It’s only been a few months. I still don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve been in California for all this time, too,” which explained why an Irishman had such a tan for that time of year, another question answered.
“Wow, congratulations, I guess.” She held up her glass and toasted him once more.
A couple of hours passed––another half bottle of wine did, too––and Phelan glanced up at the clock, standing slowly, his balance a little off, though he was holding the alcohol perhaps a bit better than she was, despite his relatively empty stomach.
“I’d better be off.”
“Really?” She strained her eyes to catch the time on the kitchen clock. It was gone nine. She followed him to the door, as he collected his jacket from the hanger. Lunging forward, she kissed him on the lips, more drunkenly than anything else.
“Sleep with me,” she said, pulling away from him, sensing he wasn’t really responding.
“Mag, you’re drunk, and we’ve only just reconnected after many years.”
“I’ve never stopped loving you, Phelan Mcdermott,” his surname coming out rather severely pronounced, to which she seemed oblivious.
“Look, I’ll leave you my new number,” he said, taking out a pen and jotting down the number for the pay-as-you-go SIM card he’d purchased after his arrival from America. “Feel free to drop me a line with yours, and we can do this again sometime soon. Okay?” He couldn’t help but see the look of disappointment on her face that he was leaving, that he’d turned her down, to her face this time, once more.
“Okay,” she said, regardless. She had Phelan's number, and now her life was more together than it ever had been before. She could be the woman he deserved.
He let himself out of the front door, pulling it shut behind him, and pressed out into the darkness, trying to remember his way back to the nearest station so that he could get the tube back to his hotel. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the two bottles of wine he’d helped to drink, nor the three-day-old hummus he’d devoured.
As he left the underground station at the end of the journey, his phone rang. It was Matvey.
“What?” He couldn’t help feeling angry at the man directly responsible for this anguish.
“So you decided not to stay the night.”
“Excuse me?”
“With Maggie. You’ve made a good impression but decided not to press that advantage any further?”
“You’ve been watching me?” Phelan turned around, wondering if they were following him at that moment.
“Relax. We’ve been watching Maggie, waiting for you to show up.”
“You’re unbelievable, you hear me.” He was aware the alcohol had loosened his tongue, but maybe that would mean he would finally say the things he really wanted to say to this man.
“She’s ripe for the taking, and the quicker you get on with it, the better it will be for all of us. You might even enjoy it. Think of it as bonus sex.”
He could have thrown up at that moment.
“I hate you; you know that!”
“Manners, Phelan, manners. I’m not some low-life scum that you might have grown up with, someone you can slag off without it coming back to bite you hard. You owe me everything.”
“I owe you? How the bloody hell do you work that one out?”
His speech was slurring, and Matvey had been told they’d been drinking quite heavily in Maggie’s front room, his team watching from across the road, another person in the alley behind the garden, a clear view in through the kitchen and into the lounge beyond. Matvey let his last comment be.
“The only way to put this all behind you and to be free is to do what I tell you, Phelan. Maggie Thompson needs to be prepared to do what I need her to do, and you must see she does that. Then your pretty little wife won’t have to know what you are up to at the moment, or about the affair you had with this same woman seven years ago. None of them needs to know about the money, where it came from, and my role in giving it to you. It’ll all go away. I suggest you get some sleep, sober up and take the next step with Maggie. She’s a beautiful woman, after all.”
“Screw you!”
“No, screw her, Phelan, and then some.” The phone went dead, Phelan more trapped than he’d ever felt in his life. He decided to walk the long way back to the hotel, needing to clear his head in the fresh December air, before staggering back in through the foyer, and up to his suite on the top floor. He was asleep even before he’d undressed, tiredne
ss taking over, the wine playing its part, dead to the world.
34
Bright sunshine shone in through the windows, the sun low in the sky, as evening fell in California. Phelan had rented out a beachfront condo before he left, having instructed them to settle down for a bit as the project he had to do for Matvey would take some time.
His wife’s phone was ringing, but the middle son answered it, seeing their dad’s name displayed on the handset.
“Dad!”
“How are you doing?”
“Good, but I miss you, Dad.”
“I miss you all too, very much,” a shudder running through his body at that moment, not just from standing outside in the cold, the only way he could get the privacy he needed to make these calls. Fireworks sounded in the distance.
“Are they fireworks, Dad?”
“Yes, they are.”
“But it’s daytime. Who lets off fireworks when it’s still light?” In the background, he could hear his wife’s voice calling over to his son. “Gotta go, Dad, Mum’s coming,” and before Phelan could tell him he loved him and would see him soon, he’d gone, his wife’s voice coming through moments later.
“Happy New Year, darling,” he said, midnight striking in London.
“We have a few more hours yet, but Happy New Year to you, too.”
“How is everyone?”
“Coping as best we can. You never said it would be this long…” but it was an argument she didn’t want to have again with Phelan.
“I know. I know…and I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.” Inside Maggie had invited around a number of her friends, all keen to see the man with whom she was now living. He knew he couldn’t be long, she would come looking for him soon.
“It’ll be over soon. I promise.”
“Well, we’ve heard that one before, haven’t we?”
“I mean it.”
“It’s the boys, mainly. They run riot when you aren’t around. You can see it in their behaviour, and they need you. I need you,” and she was crying again now.
“I’m sorry.”
