Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  The sight of the castle quietened Irene. If she had a landmark, then she knew where she was. She took a deep breath, putting things in perspective. After all, she was a professional, a corporate executive, and Patrick was only an ex-marine. She remembered Ms Manning’s stipulation that she must journey alone, so that Patrick was no longer a fixed star in her firmament. Taking a deep breath, Irene began to view the situation with more objectivity. Her hurt, like Patrick, was only transitory. It was a pity that she had grown to like him, but there were many more men that she could use for sex, when necessary.

  Irene looked upward at the curving stonework of the castle’s Half Moon Battery, whose cannon had threatened the city for half a millennium. That, like her ambition, was permanent. She was in Edinburgh to steal the Honours. The theft would further her career. If successful she would become one of the richest women in the world. Patrick had been her boyfriend. He had cheated on her. But she had intended to dump him anyway.

  Ordering her thoughts always calmed Irene down. Now she had to find some advantage for herself. She assessed the situation logically; working out what angle she could best use. She had to play the part of the wronged woman, while retaining both Patrick and Mary in her team until such time as she could discard them both.

  Patrick would expect her anger, so she could take immediate revenge on him, but Mary was more difficult. She was proud of her motoring accomplishments, so that was where Irene would hurt her. Once she had control of the Manning Corporation, she could buy over Mary’s sponsorship and then cut it off entirely. Or perhaps she would sponsor a rival female driver? The prospect of removing Mary from her top spot put Irene in a better humour, so she looked forward to meeting Patrick again. God but she would make him squirm.

  A group of youths burst singing from the nearest pub and the momentary flicker of light from the interior illuminated the shop next door. A heavy grill protected the window, but Irene realised that it was a jeweller. She stepped closer, trying to peer inside, but the noise from the pub distracted her and she walked on, slower now, as ideas worked through her head. Obviously Patrick had to go, but she could make the most of their final few weeks.

  Back at the hotel, she found him in their room.

  ‘God, Irene, I’m sorry, so sorry,’ Patrick stood before her with his head down and his hands spread wide. ‘It just happened, you know? I did not plan it or anything.’

  Sitting in front of him, Irene allowed him to grovel. She could nearly enjoy her feeling of power, although she still hurt and wanted to retaliate. Patrick continued to profess his sorrow, offering a dozen forms of penance to assuage his guilt and her anger.

  ‘What can I say? What can I do to prove it was an accident?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Irene kept her tone flat; unsure whether it would be more effective to slap him or storm out the door. ‘You can do nothing, Patrick. You’ve done enough.’

  ‘I know.’ His head was down again. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And would you be so sorry if I had not caught you?’ She allowed the fire to light behind her eyes, moved her hand to the side and saw him flinch as if he expected a blow. Really, men were soft beneath the muscles. She felt like a puppet mistress.

  Patrick said nothing. He stood directly under the central light of the room with the crisp hairs of his chest showing in the vee of his shirt.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Irene said softly, allowing him some hope as she injected doubt in to her voice. She was punishing him, playing with his emotions as he had toyed with Mary’s body.

  Patrick stepped one pace forward. He was a full seven inches taller than her, with a forty-four inch chest and powerful arms, but at that moment he looked like a small boy caught out in some infantile transgression. He reached out to her.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ There was no need to act as Irene recoiled in genuine disgust. ‘Not after you’ve been rolling around with that woman!’ Her slap was instinctive and so fast that Patrick had no time to duck. It caught him full across the face with a sound that rebounded from the walls of the room. ‘Get back.’ Irene held her ground, forcing him to retreat by the power of her will. ‘Get back from me, I said.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m truly sorry,’ Patrick stumbled backward, one hand to his face. He looked shocked at the intensity of her anger.

  ‘Oh, get out,’ Irene pointed to the door. ‘Go on.’ As logic battled with anger, Irene knew that she was making the wrong decision. She would be better to forgive him, to allow him back into her favour, but she could not. ‘Get back to that woman.’ She could not bear to say Mary’s name.

  Patrick opened the door.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, go!’ Irene pointed outside, turning her face away to hide the tears that were burning at her eyes. She heard the soft click of the door closing before she collapsed onto the chair.

  It was early in the morning before she could control her sobs, and she could not return to the bed that Patrick had defiled. She knew that she should never have allowed emotion to rule her, but at that moment she would have swapped every jewel in Scotland, and every artefact in Mannadu, for one man on whom she could rely.

  Dawn in Edinburgh was subtle rather than spectacular, with a silvery sheen slowly seeping from the east, adorning the stylish stonework of the Georgian architecture and the greenery of the gorge below. Irene leaned against the parapet of the Dean Bridge, listening to the increasing rumble of traffic that combated the soft singing of blackbirds. She had slept fitfully but awoke with new purpose; she had to control her emotions today, and show forgiveness to Patrick. Somehow she also had to face Mary. Retaliation would wait until the Honours were secure.

  Taking a deep breath, Irene returned to the hotel and ordered a huge breakfast. She was still eating when she saw Patrick stagger into the room, unshaven and obviously having spent the night outside. Irene felt some satisfaction that he had not seen fit to return to Mary, but did not smile when he hovered beside her chair. His first words were predictable.

  ‘I’m sorry, I really am. I won’t do it again.’

  Irene looked up slowly, aware that a waitress was watching from a corner of the room. She allowed the tension to build up. ‘Well now; we’ll have to see, won’t we? Oh for God’s sake, Patrick! I’m having my breakfast. Go and get washed and shaved, you look like something the cat refused to drag in.’

  ‘Can you forgive me?’ Patrick raised his head slightly.

  Irene reached out but dropped her hand before she made contact. ‘I’m not sure yet. But if I let you back,’ she narrowed her eyes and half rose from her seat, ‘by God you’d better not let me down again!’

  ‘I won’t,’ Patrick promised, ‘I swear that I won’t.’ He waited a moment as Irene returned to her breakfast, and then walked away, his shoulders hunched.

  Irene looked directly at the waitress and smiled brightly. ‘Men, eh? You have to keep them under control all the time, or there’s no knowing what they’ll be up to. They’re just children with oversized libidos.’

  The waitress smiled and shook her head. ‘That’s true. You wouldn’t believe the things they get up to in here, but some of the women are just as bad.’

  Irene had no desire to swap gossip with a hireling. ‘I’ll bet they are,’ she said, and looked up as Mary came in, arm in arm with a smug looking Desmond. ‘And talking of bad women,’ she raised her voice so it carried around the room, ‘here’s one now.’

  Mary sat opposite her and smiled directly into her face. ‘Don’t look so upset, Irene. He was only a man. There are plenty more, you know.’ She patted Desmond’s arm, as if to prove her point.

  Irene examined her, wondering anew about the attraction. With her cropped hair and gaunt face, Mary was anything but pretty, while breasts and hips that appeared not to have developed since puberty could hardly interest a man.

  ‘What did Patrick see in me?’ Mary read her thoughts with an ease that made Irene suspect that it was not the first time she had faced a cheated woman over the breakfast table. ‘H
e saw success, Irene. Men like to have a successful woman, and you only got second prize.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Remember that we all watched The Neophyte, Irene, and saw you squirm.’

  ‘Yet I’m calling the shots now,’ Irene kept her voice calm. Instinctively she realised that shouting would avail her nothing with this woman.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Mary kept her voice low. ‘You need me, but I can return to the States any time, and you can do no more about that than you can stop me taking Patrick. You can’t even fire me, Irene, because I know too much.’ Holding out her hand, palm up, she said, ‘I have you here.’ She slowly closed her fist.

  Irene controlled her anger. Everything Mary said strengthened her resolve for vengeance, but she could wait. She forced a smile. ‘Well then, I’d better keep our relationship on a professional basis then, hadn’t I?’

  ‘That’s the way,’ Mary’s smile was just as wide, and looked more genuine. She leaned forward and whispered, ‘especially as I can guess who you are working for. It’s no secret that Rhondda Manning is an art collector. Trying to get back into favour, are we?’

  For a moment Irene was shocked. She had no idea that her life was so transparent. The old maxim came to her, when in doubt, attack. ‘Whoever I am working for, Mary, I do not have to boost my ego by seducing a man half my age. I let you borrow Patrick’s body once, but he’s back in the fold now, and he won’t be straying again.’ She dropped her smile, hoping that Mary could not hear the rapid hammering of her heart. ‘Now that the shepherd is aware of the wolf, she’ll be much more ready to defend her sheep.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Desmond leaned forward to listen, ‘I can’t hear you when you whisper like that. Are you talking about me?’

  ‘Always, sweetheart,’ Mary withdrew and placed her fingers on his arm. ‘I was just telling Irene how talented you were in bed. Far better than the panting youths I have had before.’ She smirked into Irene’s face.

  Bryan and Stefan came in together, with Bryan’s eyes scanning the entire room before he sat down, while Stefan stared stolidly ahead. Only when Patrick joined them did Irene give her orders for the day. She told Mary to continue to learn the portion of Edinburgh that she was to drive, checking every back street and alternative route in case of roadworks or hold ups. ‘Desmond, you and Bryan have to work on diversions. I want you to devise methods of taking everybody’s attention away from the Honours. Smoke, bomb alerts; anything like that. OK?’

  Desmond nodded while Bryan glanced from Mary to Patrick and back. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Patrick did not look up from the table.

  ‘Stefan. You have to work on the actual hit. That’s your speciality.’

  Stefan shrugged. ‘Sure.’ Although his accent was still more Ukrainian than American, Irene knew that he was the only member of the team she entirely trusted. Stefan was a professional working for money; Irene could understand his motives far better than she could the idealism-driven Irish.

  ‘And me?’ Patrick looked up briefly.

  ‘You and I are working together today,’ Irene said, ‘lucky me.’ She was very aware of Mary’s mocking eyes.

  The Grassmarket looked different in daylight, with the pubs closed and the shops open. There were more tourists probing into the historical corners and more students doing anything apart from study. Two women gossiped at the foot of a flight of steps that led into a common stair. Irene looked up, seeing the castle impressive on its rock, a reminder why she was here.

  ‘You let me down,’ she said to Patrick, breaking a long silence.

  He nodded. He was walking one pace behind her, as if too ashamed even to be at her side.

  Irene swallowed. She needed his help to steal the Honours, but could not let him off too easily. She had to play this cleverly. ‘You hurt me badly.’

  Patrick nodded again and Irene quelled her rising irritation. Why did he not argue? Shout back? Try to put some of the blame on her so that they could have a blazing argument that would allow each to vent their anger and get things out in the open? She shook her head; she always picked men who were so much less than her, men who looked strong, but who proved to be moral weaklings, unable to match her in temperament or wit. What was wrong with them?

  ‘Well, say something then!’ She stopped and faced him, not hiding the anger that forced his eyes to slide from her face.

  His answer was predictably humble. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

  ‘She forced you, did she?’ Irene raised her voice, aware that the two women had stopped talking to listen. Men hated public humiliation so she hoped that Patrick was squirming with embarrassment. ‘That woman forced you into her bed and raped you? That woman of nearly twice your age and half your size?’ Irene deliberately raised her voice with each word, watching Patrick’s face redden.

  The women were very quiet, one shaking her head in disapproval.

  Irene waited for a response, relishing his discomfiture. When he eventually raised his eyes to hers, there was no fight in them.

  ‘All right,’ she said, quietly, knowing that she had won, but perversely disappointed by his lack of spirit. ‘I agree that she is a man-eater, a predator. You were her victim.’

  Patrick nodded, willing to accept his own weakness.

  ‘You’re a fool, Patrick. She was just using you.’ Irene eased some compassion into her voice. What did she ever see in this spineless creature who was unable even to defend himself? He could only offer boyish looks and muscles. She stepped back, reminding herself that his ability to fly a helicopter made him indispensable. A sudden image of wealth and power of the Manning Corporation thrust into Irene’s mind. Patrick was crucial to her campaign; she had to relent.

  Stepping back, Irene turned and quickly crossed the road, hoping that she did not trip on these old-fashioned granite setts. The last thing she wanted to do was land in an undignified sprawl on an Edinburgh street. She heard the echo of her steps and then, when she was half way across, the clatter of Patrick racing in pursuit.

  ‘Irene!’ When he came beside her, snatching for her hand, she knew that she owned him, body and soul. ‘I am sorry. I was not thinking and I don’t even like the woman.’ His voice was urgent, pleading, as he walked at her side. She shook her hand free and stopped just outside the jewellers that she had seen the previous night.

  ‘If you don’t like her, then why did you sleep with her?’

  ‘It just happened. She was there, I wanted you, but she came into the room and things just happened.’

  He was as immature as a small boy, Irene thought, reaching for forbidden sweeties just because he could. She knew that there had been no malice in his actions, only a lack of thought, a triumph of desire over judgement. God, men were so childish! She turned away and stared into the window. The shop was tiny, with a dark interior and a collection of cheap trinkets on display. She focussed on the one tray that seemed even moderately interesting.

  Patrick followed her eyes. ‘They’re nice,’ he seized the opportunity that she offered. ‘Would you like one?’

  The temptation to continue her cruelty nearly overcame her, but instead Irene nodded. ‘Quite nice,’ she said.

  ‘Come on inside.’ There was desperation in his eyes. ‘Please, Irene. I want to buy you something.’

  Irene allowed him to take her inside.

  Inadequate light from brass oil-lamps reflected from a score of locked glass cases, while the sanded floor sounded hollow under their feet. Two men stood in muted conversation across a counter of polished wood. The overall effect was so quaintly Victorian that Irene was not sure whether to walk out or laugh, until she realised that the display in the window did not express the quality of the jewellery inside. Most of it was unique, handcrafted pieces that reflected the character of the designer more than the mass media tastes of modern society.

  Ignoring Patrick, she studied the stock with growing interest, spending time over each case. There was nothing on display that would sell in New York or Pa
ris, but the originality intrigued her.

  ‘You’ve some nice stuff here,’ she said at last.

  ‘Aye. No’ bad.’ The man was slight, with a thin face and sandy hair. He leaned across the counter. ‘Was there anything in particular that you were after?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Irene examined a tray of amethyst rings. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like these before. Where are they from?’

  ‘Scotland,’ the jeweller said baldly. ‘Everything in here is Scottish made. I make a lot of it myself.’ He lifted out the tray for Irene to examine. ‘We used to mine gold in Scotland, but not now. Some of the stones are Scottish though. Amethyst, cairngorm, pearls from the Tay.’ He shrugged. ‘You don’t get many Tay pearls nowadays. Apart from me, there is only one other shop licensed to sell them, and that's in Perth.’ He looked up sharply. ‘The diamonds aren’t Scottish though. Nor the rubies and such like.’ His gesture seemed to dismiss the non-Scottish stones into secondary importance.

  ‘I did not know that Scotland made jewellery,’ Irene slipped a ring over her finger and held it up to the light. The amethyst sparkled as Patrick hovered, demanding to know if she would like it.

  ‘Give the woman a chance,’ the jeweller reproved.

  Irene thought that if he improved his customer care skills the shop owner might be able to afford more impressive premises. ‘We’ve just had an argument,’ she explained. ‘He’s desperate to buy me something so we make up.’

  The jeweller grunted. ‘Is that right? Well, my family have been making good in this profession for centuries, so we’ve got a wee bit experience.’ He looked Patrick up and down. ‘How much money is the gentleman willing to spend to get back in your favour?’

  Irene could not help smiling. ‘A lot,’ she said at once, ‘but I won’t let him spend above his budget.’ She had been slowly growing aware of the third man in the shop and looked up. He was leaning against the counter, watching. ‘Do you always listen to private conversations?’