Playing Dead

by Jessie Keane

  Annie froze. All the fight went out of her in an instant. ‘He’s dead,’ she said flatly. She saw the shock of it register on his face. She let out a cracked, bitter laugh. ‘You know what? I nearly died too. But I lived. I wish I’d died, but I didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’ Now he was staring into her face from inches away. ‘Because you loved him so much?’

  Annie’s mouth was a quivering bitter line of hate as she stared into the face of the man she had once loved, once married, once had a child with; and once mourned.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, wanting to hurt him as badly as he was hurting her. ‘Because of that. Yeah.’

  Now she felt so empty, so spent. Constantine was dead. Nico was dead. Max despised her. She sagged against him and instantly, roughly, he pushed her away, stepped back, glared at her. His eyes swept contemptuously over her. ‘Don’t come the helpless little woman act with me. I don’t buy it. And you’re not that irresistible. In fact, you look like something out of fucking Belsen.’

  Annie recoiled. She thought she heard the doorbell, but she couldn’t have. It was too late in the evening. It was only his words she heard, flung at her like weapons, clanging around her head. It was true, what he was saying. She knew it was. Her hair was unwashed, her clothes were shabby. She hadn’t been eating. Food had only made her gag in these past horrendous months since the explosion. She had barely even been drinking. She was a mess, inside and out.

  ‘I . . .’ she started to say, and then there were voices out in the hall. It was the doorbell. She frowned. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  She glanced at the longcase clock ticking steadily away in the corner. It was after midnight. Who would come calling in the small hours; what would come calling except trouble?

  Oh my God – Layla . . .? she thought, and rushed to the door and threw it open.

  Rosa, in dressing gown and slippers, was ushering in a group of people.

  Annie’s mouth dropped open as she stared at the back of the tall man standing there.

  It was Constantine. Constantine alive and well, not blackened, not burned and blown apart.

  Then the man turned.

  It was not Constantine.

  It was Alberto, taking Aunt Gina’s coat, and she was moaning on – as usual – saying oh this English weather, and Cara was depositing all her hand luggage into a man’s arms, a man who looked like one of the drivers Annie remembered from Montauk. Fredo. That was Fredo.

  ‘Take that up to my room, will you?’ Cara told him. ‘First left on the landing.’

  Rocco was there, quiet and long-suffering as always, and there was Lucco’s new bride Daniella, looking around in awestruck silence at the grandeur of her surroundings, and there – oh shit – there was Lucco, smiling silkily as he saw Annie standing there watching the scene.

  ‘Annie,’ he said, his eyes cold as black ice. ‘How surprising to find you here. And how nice.’

  Chapter 47

  Lucco was striding across the hall towards her. God, you had to hand it to the creep; he really was handsome as hell with his glossy black hair glinting in the lights of the chandeliers, his good height and his almost girlishly smooth olive skin; but his eyes were hard and pitiless as stones.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Annie asked, wondering if she was finally going mad.

  He was holding out his hand to her. He expected her to kiss it – because of course he was the Don now. He was in charge. She thought of Constantine, so regal, so intimidating, in the days when she had first known him. She had refused to kiss his hand, and she certainly wasn’t going to kiss this jumped-up little scumbag’s.

  When she didn’t take it, kiss it, Lucco gave a twisted little smile and moved in and instead kissed her on each cheek. Annie repressed the urge to wipe her skin clean afterwards. She stared blankly into his eyes as he drew back.

  ‘I’m so pleased to see you making yourself comfortable in my house,’ said Lucco smoothly, his eyes moving past her to fasten on the man lounging in the doorway. ‘And who is this?’

  Annie half turned and her eye caught Max’s. Fuck, what could she say to that . . .?

  ‘Mark Carson,’ said Max, moving forward and extending a hand to Lucco. ‘Security.’

  Lucco reluctantly shook Max’s hand, but Lucco’s expression was bemused. He glanced back at Annie.

  ‘I would have thought Nico would have provided all the security you need – if you needed any at all, which surely can’t be the case any more.’

  He was saying that she was no longer worth bothering with.

  Annie gulped. What had Max said? Security? What the hell was he playing at? ‘Nico’s gone back to the States,’ she said.

  ‘Really? We haven’t seen him over there.’

  ‘Just today,’ Annie managed to blurt out.

  ‘Ah.’

  Now Alberto came forward, smiling warmly at her. ‘Stepmom,’ he said, and embraced her. He drew back a little, holding her arms with his hands and smiling into her eyes. She stared at him, shaken. Sometimes, he could look so much like Constantine that it freaked her out. One moment, Constantine’s strong image was there, but then it was gone as if imagined. ‘Where’d you get to? You left without saying a word to any of us.’ His eyes lifted and rested on Max. ‘I hope you’re taking good care of her.’

  ‘I am,’ lied Max.

  ‘Good.’ Alberto paused, eyeing Max assessingly. ‘I’m Alberto Barolli, this is my brother Lucco . . . and,’ Alberto smiled at the hesitant-looking girl who stood there in the centre of the hall, not knowing quite what to do, ‘this lovely thing is Daniella, his wife. That’s Aunt Gina.’

  The regal older woman, clad in funereal black, gave Annie and her ‘security’ a sour look and a little nod before going silently up the stairs.

  ‘And that is my sister Cara and her husband, Rocco.’

  Beauteous blonde Cara gave the group by the study door a brief glance and said: ‘I’m going on up, I’m tired. Come on, Rocco.’

  And they followed Gina up the stairs.

  ‘But what are you all doing here . . .?’ asked Annie dazedly.

  Alberto shrugged and his face grew serious. ‘After what happened, we thought, maybe we shouldn’t . . . but then, what would Papa want us to do? So we’ve come, as we usually do, for Goodwood. But it feels so sad, without him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Annie. ‘It does.’ In her heart she felt outraged that they could do that, even think of enjoying themselves when what was left of Constantine was lying dead in a New York graveyard. But in a way she understood; they wanted to carry on the family tradition, maybe as a tribute to his memory.

  She’d forgotten that the Barolli clan always came over for the races when they could. She’d forgotten that, and perhaps she’d forgotten other things, important things she really ought to have remembered. Maybe she’d had some sort of breakdown.

  ‘Well, we’re exhausted, we’re off to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, sweetheart,’ said Alberto.

  He went over to the stairs, passing Daniella and kissing her on the cheek, then he had a brief word with Rosa, and went on up.

  Lucco gave Annie an ironic little bow, gave Max a nod, and then followed, taking his wife by the arm and ushering her up the stairs.

  When the hall was empty, Annie turned to Max.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ she demanded.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said, and grabbed her arm and drew her back inside the study, closing the door behind them.

  Annie angrily shook herself free.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she snapped. ‘I want to know what all that was about. What the hell do you mean, security?’

  Max stared at her. ‘Listen, you’re my only link to my daughter. So until I know where Layla is, until I’ve got her, then I’m not letting you out of my sight, understand?’

  Annie was shaking her head. ‘No. They’ve seen you before, they’ll know who you are.’

  Max shrugged. ‘They saw me once, briefly, in a gallery years ago. They d
on’t know me. No, listen. You ain’t getting rid of me as easily as that. I’m sticking to you like glue, lady, until I have Layla with me.’

  ‘You’re not taking her away from me,’ said Annie fiercely.

  ‘Watch me,’ he said. ‘Now – where do you sleep?’

  Annie’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re not staying here. And you are not staying in my room.’

  His mouth curved in a sour smile. ‘I’m not interested in sleeping in your room. Fuck me! I wouldn’t touch you with someone else’s, much less my own. I want to know which room’s yours, that’s all.’

  Annie felt weary under this onslaught. He hated her. She understood that. But for God’s sake, did he have to keep driving the point home?

  ‘I’m staying in the master suite, the one at the top of the stairs – that is, unless Lucco’s had all my stuff moved out, which could happen.’

  ‘Well, supposing the oily little git don’t start chucking his weight about first chance he gets, is there a room adjoining it?’

  So he’s got Lucco’s number too, thought Annie.

  ‘Yeah. There is,’ she said tiredly.

  ‘Then I’ll sleep in there.’

  ‘The door between the rooms will be locked,’ said Annie coldly.

  ‘Don’t fucking well flatter yourself,’ said Max.

  Chapter 48

  It was a long night. All nights were unbearable for Annie now, but this one took the prize. She lay sleepless, staring into the darkness for what felt like hours, her mind a jumble of confusion.

  Layla, where the hell was Layla? She had to make herself believe that she was all right, that Gerda was with her and that soon, very soon, Gerda would make contact. But . . . when she did, Max was going to take Layla away from her.

  Max was asleep in the room next door.

  Max, alive and well and breathing fire and fury because he felt she’d betrayed him. Now she could remember how she had wrestled with herself over her attraction to Constantine. It hadn’t been an easy decision to make, getting involved with him after losing Max, but she could never, ever regret it. She had loved Constantine. How could she have known that Max had somehow – how? – managed to stay alive.

  She turned over, hugging the pillow. Couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t rest. In the half-light cast by the streetlight filtering through the drapes, she stared at the dim outline of the door leading into the other room. Max was in there. She couldn’t even begin to believe it. But this wasn’t her Max; he wasn’t the Max she’d known. This Max was a hardened stranger, one who was going to snatch her daughter away the first chance he got.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  But for fuck’s sake – how could she stop him?

  She reached out and switched on the light, to chase away the shadows. She put her head in her hands and thought of Nico, her loyal and trusted friend, lying dead on the pavement, shot through the heart. And then the gun pointing straight at her head.

  If Max, Steve and Gary hadn’t come along just then, she would be dead now too. But why would anyone want to kill Nico? Or her? What possible threat could she be to anyone?

  She got out of bed and went over to the dressing table, poured a glass of water. Her nude reflection stared back at her.

  You look like something out of fucking Belsen.

  He was right. She was thin and pale, almost gaunt, with big mauve shadows under her eyes and a look in them that said she had seen straight into hell. She hadn’t attended to her hair in a long time; it hung in a wild, dark tangle almost down to her waist. Every day of pain and torment she’d endured after losing Constantine and then his baby was etched on her face and body.

  She turned away from the mirror, not liking what she saw there, and went to the window, lifting the drape to peer out. The square was quiet, apparently deserted. But away up at the end of it, a match flared. Someone was there, in the darkness. Annie felt her heartbeat accelerate. Was someone watching the house, watching her? She dropped the curtain quickly and hurried back to the bed, crawling back under the covers. She snapped off the light, oh God, she wanted to sleep, to rest, to just sink into oblivion.

  But her eyes were open and as her night vision returned she found herself staring at the chair beside the dressing table again, and he was there. Constantine was there, sunk in shadows, Constantine dead and charred, incinerated, but somehow watching her.

  This time she didn’t run from the bed, throw herself into his blackened arms only to find that he wasn’t there at all. This time she knew he wasn’t, her head was just playing tricks on her.

  It’s true, she thought. I’m losing my mind.

  She turned over, clutched at the pillow, a single weak tear escaping and sliding down into her disordered hair. Finally, she slept. Her dreams were dark, and troubled.

  Chapter 49

  Frances Ducane stood at the end of the square. He saw the light go out, the last light in the house. Now it crouched there like a dark monolith, full square, imposing, an exquisite William and Mary red-brick mansion that spoke of great wealth, extreme comfort, security. The London night was cool, damp, and he was wearing only a jacket, but Frances didn’t notice the weather. He didn’t feel the cold.

  Inside there was Rocco – his love, his pain, his betrayer.

  So close.

  He finished his cigarette and threw it to the ground, grinding it out beneath his heel. Once, he wouldn’t have smoked. He would have guarded his voice, his precious actor’s voice.

  But not any more.

  He had no career, thanks to Rocco.

  All he had were the crumbs she fed him from her table. And tonight she was probably going to withdraw even them, because he had failed, let her down.

  He stared up at the house. Rocco was in there. So close, and yet so far away.

  Rocco, sleeping in comfort, having forgotten all about Frances Ducane. Everyone forgot Frances Ducane, while everyone remembered his father Rick. His late father.

  Frances’s disfigured face twisted as he loitered there in the shadows.

  His father, who for two years had – in Frances’s opinion – been clinically insane, had finally succumbed to the frailties of old age, and died. His funeral had taken place last week, and Frances had attended, standing alone in the crematorium and rejoicing in the fact that Rick Ducane, once famous, was now so unknown that no one even came to his funeral except the son who despised him.

  So much for the great Shakespearean actor, the great Hollywood star, thought Frances with bitter satisfaction.

  Tomorrow he would go to the house, the much-hated place in Kent, which had been his father’s and was now his. See his inheritance – before he sold it lock, stock and barrel.

  Then maybe he could begin to forget the hand that fate had dealt him. Forget that he was the one who stood in the shadows, the one who was abused, overlooked, forgotten. Finally, he could forget.

  Now he could see her, stepping out through the front door of the house, hurrying over to where he stood. When she drew near, her eyes were cold.

  ‘She’s still alive,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The old guy got in the way.’

  ‘Listen, you said you could do this.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She looked sceptical. ‘Well now she’s got another minder, and he’s sharp. So next time, no mistakes – okay?’

  Frances nodded.

  ‘Or no money,’ she said.

  Frances nodded again. Very soon now he would have his own money, and she could go fuck herself.

  ‘Good.’ And she turned and hurried back to the house.

  Next day, he took the train down to Kent, catching a taxi from the station to the solicitor’s office. He easily assumed the grave air of the grieving son – he was an actor after all – and pretended not to notice the old man’s flinch of revulsion as he saw Frances’s face for the first time.

  They sat in the gloomy wood-panelled offices of Tre
acher, Burton and Quaid, and old man Quaid, after many harrumphs and much fidgeting, finally settled himself, put his reading glasses on and unfolded the will.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked, shooting a glance at the abomination sitting across the desk from him.

  ‘No, thank you,’ replied Frances. Just read the damned thing, he thought.

  The old man’s eyes returned to the will. He started to read it, and Frances waited confidently to hear his name mentioned. His father had no other living relative, so he knew that he was sole heir.

  ‘. . . so I bequeath my estate in its entirety to Dubrow Pines,’ concluded the old man, and refolded the will.

  Frances leaned sharply forward. ‘Dubrow Pines?’ he spluttered. ‘Who the hell is Dubrow Pines?’

  ‘Rather, it’s a what,’ said the man with a dry half-smile, removing his glasses and placing them neatly to one side. ‘Dubrow Pines is a home for badly injured ex-servicemen. I believe your father fought in the war . . .?’

  ‘You mean he’s left me nothing? Nothing at all?’

  ‘I’m afraid that is the case.’

  Frances sprang to his feet. ‘Are you serious?’

  He had been sure that he was going to be comfortably wealthy from this day on. He had planned to tell the woman that she could stuff her orders, that he had means, he had funds – but now, he didn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the solicitor.

  ‘Well fuck you,’ said Frances, and he turned and rushed from the building.

  That afternoon he went to Whereys, the grand rambling Victorian house out in the countryside where his father had slowly lost his wits and where he, Frances, had been so inconsolably miserable.

  He kicked in the front door into the panelled hallway with its big sweeping mahogany staircase. Then he stood there, the door open, sunlight streaming in behind him so that dust motes danced all around him.

  The place smelled musty, full of mould spores and years of neglect. But it was worth a fortune and his father had squandered it, tossed the whole damned thing away. He closed the door and listened to the silence in the place. No more would he hear his father’s booming actor’s voice hectoring him, deriding him. The old man was dead. And this place . . . this place was dead too.