by K T Bowes
The conversation began five years previously, during the early months of our sham marriage. I swallowed and picked at the ridged scab which made a poor job of keeping my heart safe, hoping I could find some inner catharsis in truth. I should’ve known better.
‘I need to tell Ursula the truth. This isn’t fair on her.’
‘Don’t you dare! Keep her happy, give her a kid and nobody needs to know.’
‘But it’s killing me. Don’t you care?’
‘No. You know how the world feels about people like us. Do you honestly think the lads on a Saturday will get naked in the changing room once they know? They’ll be too scared to bend down for the soap. Don’t do it.’
‘Life’s not like that anymore. The lads will be fine. I’ve got taste too. I don’t automatically fancy every dude I see.’
‘Don’t do it!’
‘I can’t live a lie anymore. It’s not fair on Ursula. She doesn’t deserve this.’
‘Don’t. I’m telling you. Don’t.’
I felt sick to my stomach. Pete wanted to tell me and this confidante convinced him not to. I would remain ignorant for a further two and a half years after that sentence was typed, believing myself ugly and working hard to slim down and create a more appealing bed fellow for a man who just wasn’t interested in women. I revolted him and the realisation made the fragile love I’d fostered for him turn to ash in my mouth. The other party to the conversation typed under the name ‘Plus One’ and I hated him for denying me the truth, a bubbling, broiling emotion which fostered an ache in my temples.
I slammed the laptop lid and left it charging under my desk, teaching my babies mathematics, full words in phonetics and reading an extended story as the heavy clocked ticked on the wall above the door. But it drew me like a sickness, filling me with the need to know more. At every opportunity I slunk back to the chat room, making sure I showed up as ‘offline’ each time, so I could go back through the four-year conversation from the start.
‘How do you live the lie? How does your wife not know?’ Pete asked.
‘I can’t let her. She has no idea.’
‘But Ursula wants a baby. I should just tell her and let her find someone else to get pregnant with. I could support her and a kid financially. I wouldn’t mind.’
‘No. Father your own child.’
‘I CAN’T!’
The sentence pained me as I read it, remembering my husband’s stellar efforts on our wedding night. Alcohol made him sappy and I wondered if he took some other mind bending drug as he’d flipped me over and taken me from behind, his roughness a surprise after a courtship of gallantry and chastity. Sore and disappointed, it felt all wrong and I’d hoped things would improve. I shook my head at my own blindness back then.
‘Pretend she’s someone else.’
I stared in disbelief at the words, the cruelty leaving an arrow trace through my heart. I put my hand up to my mouth and bit down on the inside of my fingers, no longer able to read the coldness in the other person’s advice. It explained the method behind the only other time Pete made love to me, not that it could be called that. Fumbled and brutal after the only time Peter Saint received a red card on the pitch, I never ever asked for his clemency again. He’d balanced on his elbows above me with his eyes misted by rage, grinding for ages until I cried with relief at being allowed off the bed and into the safety of the bathroom. I realised then that a child wouldn’t fix our marriage and stopped asking. Figuring I’d made a terrible error of judgement, I buried myself in my work, keeping up a great pretence for family and friends and heading towards my thirties with a broken spirit.
Somehow despite my horror, Pete’s secret conversation brought me comfort with its clarifying flare of hindsight. The problem was him, not me. I could go on. He couldn’t. I thought of Teina’s gentle ministrations and my lips quirked at the memory of pleasures I hadn’t known possible before him. I used the feelings he created in the pit of my stomach to overwrite the nastiness of sex with Pete and the misery of my marriage, planting Teina’s loving as a garden of flowers in my mind to cover up the barren, empty ground. I’d slept with a referee and not just any. I’d danced on Peter Saint’s grave using the man who dealt him a red card with a strong, outstretched arm and a fixed smile on his face. What’s more; I’d enjoyed it.
Chapter 23
I laid in bed late on Saturday with my cell phone on silent. I suspected my father would text his fat little fingers off trying to force me to go to the game in the afternoon and planned ahead, having unplugged the landline the night before.
Jack stuck his head around my bedroom door at lunchtime, grinning as I sat ensconced in my duvet with stacks of lesson plans scattered around me. “What you up to?” he asked.
“School stuff,” I said and ran a hand through my tangled fringe. “Where were you last night?”
“Out, Mum!” he said with sarcasm.
“Are you going out again now?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. Hey, you know the boxes of stuff we brought upstairs? What happened to the laptop?”
I shrugged. “It was knackered. Wouldn’t turn on.”
Disappointment scudded across Jack’s handsome face like cloud cover. “Oh. I wanted it.”
“Sorry.” I feigned indifference, feeling the temperature hike between us but not understanding why.
“What did you do with it?” he pressed and I frowned.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s broken!”
“I might be able to get it working,” he persisted. “I’ll pay you for it.”
“For a knackered laptop!” I scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’d really like it,” he repeated and I detected the hard edge in his voice.
I stared at him and tried to read his face expression, coming up empty when usually I knew his inner thoughts as though they were my own. “You should have said something,” I sighed, picking up a picture of a bunny rabbit shaped from the letter ‘b’ and pretending to examine it. His eyes bore into the side of my face. “It’s gone now, sorry.”
“But where did you put it?” he demanded and I narrowed my eyes.
“Jack, stop!” I thumped the rabbit onto the bed and saw it bend in half with a ruinous crease. “Bloody hell, man! Go into town and score yourself one that works. The Easter sales are still on for goodness sake.”
I closed my eyes and heard him leave, confused by the nonsensical argument. The front door slammed and I heaved a sigh of relief as the tension left with him, blowing out as rapidly as it blew in. Unable to concentrate, I kneeled on the floor next to my bed and reached underneath. The laptop slid into my fingers, inviting me to experience more of Peter Saint’s confidences. The home screen showed a full battery and I closed the lid again, rolling up the charger and sitting it on top. “Not today,” I told it. “I’m not in the mood.”
Clearing a passage through my clothes in the wardrobe, I sought the safe buried into the wall and tapped in the code. The dim light revealed my passport and other important documents and I wedged the laptop into the slender space, just managing to fit it in and close the door. The charger proved too much of a stretch and I hid it in my underwear drawer. I projected thoughts of gratitude towards the architects of the ugly nurses’ home who employed extreme foresight in some matters and ineptitude in others. The safe in each apartment counted as the former and the lack of a separate toilet and bath as the latter.
I heated a tub of noodles in the microwave as Jack slammed his way back into the flat and flung his backside into a bar stool. “Want some?” I waggled the fork at him and he shook his head.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, his tone serious.
“Sounds important.” I shovelled noodles into my mouth from the tub, feeling decadent for a Saturday afternoon. “You not going to the game?”
Jack snorted. “I never go to the games.”
“Liar! You were there on Wednesday night!”
He rolled his eyes. “To see you! Dad sent
the Saint-minions out looking for me, remember?”
I shook my head. I didn’t remember.
“Paulie!” Jack huffed, exasperation in his voice. “He said Dad wanted to see me. That’s code for ‘he wants to hurt you and throw your body to the fishies.’”
“To say hello!” My voice sounded muffled through the noodles. “Not to throw you out of the grounds.”
Jack still looked fed up, so I stashed the fork in the dishwasher and washed the tub out under the tap. “I’m not going either,” I said, feeling like a rebel. I dropped the tub into the bucket under the sink for recycling. “I might go and support the girls tomorrow though. That will really upset Dad.” My chuckle sounded all revenge and no mirth and I didn’t like how that looked on me.
“I need to get on,” I said, heading for the door into the hall. Jack moved quicker than I gave him credit for and barred my way.
“I said I need to talk to you!” His eyes held an unfamiliar intensity and unnerved me as he gripped my shoulder in his good hand. I couldn’t seem to shake him off.
“I’m not interested. We’ve had this discussion and if you can’t accept it, you need to leave.” I pushed at his chest and felt him rock on his heels but as I raised my hand to repeat the movement harder, he gripped my wrist.
“Not that, Ula! This is different. I need that laptop; Pete’s laptop.”
I put my head back and groaned. “No! Leave it. It’s gone, that’s final. Get out of my way.”
When he failed to move, I kicked him in the shin, hurting my bare foot more than his leg. Enraged, I attempted to grab his nuts and we ended up collapsing to the kitchen floor where we grappled around on the tiles. It didn’t end well for me against a much stronger opponent, even one with a broken wrist and he pinned me down with sickening ease, holding my flailing wrists above my head one-handed and suppressing my kicks with the weight of his body. “Ula, stop!” he shouted. “I’m serious!”
I lay still and played dead, refusing to look at him or respond to his questions about the laptop. Even when he lifted my shirt and tickled me, I giggled like a child but didn’t crack. He also gave up before I did, proving little had changed since our childhood. Leaning up on one elbow with his leg stretched out across mine, Jack Saint gave me a look of blistering lust. “I hate you,” he said with a sigh and I giggled again.
“No, you don’t. You just always want what you can’t have.”
“True dat,” he sighed and laid his head on my shoulder. I put my arm around his neck and cuddled him close, spotting a lonely, dried up pea which had made its escape under the fridge months ago.
“Go and see Lacey,” I advised him. “Did you ever give her the chance to explain?”
“She shagged someone else!” Indignation filled his voice.
“Just hear her out,” I begged, amazed at my own level of investment. “It might surprise you.”
“I’ll wear you down instead,” he joked, making a grab for my breast and catching my ribs with the edge of his cast. I kneed him in the nuts and he doubled over, allowing me to make my escape without hindrance.
“About the laptop,” he called after me and I slammed my bedroom door and locked it, refusing to listen to him anymore.
In true Jack-style, he didn’t give up, ambushing me every time I left my room until I shouted at him and told him to leave. He didn’t.
“This is why you and I would never work!” I yelled finally. “You don’t know when to shut up.”
“Ok, ok,” he conceded, holding his hands in front of him. “I’ll tell you everything, Ula. But you can’t repeat it or I’ll lose my job.”
“What?” I stopped with the wine glass half raised to my lips, filled to the brim with the nice stuff Jack funded on our impromptu beach picnic.
“Promise.” His eyes begged me for mercy as he took the wine stem from my fingers and laid the glass on the counter. I nodded, the action feeble against the momentum of some unseen force in the room which channelled itself through Jack’s brown eyes. He watched for a moment and then took my hands in his. “I think you need to sit down,” he said.
Chapter 24
“They’re watching me too?” My voice rose a notch and I heard my heart send blood rushing too fast into my brain. I felt dizzy with fear. “For how long?”
“A few months now. I’ve literally fallen into this mess face first.” Jack curled his top lip as though suffering garlic reflux and sighed. “All these years I’ve kept my distance from the Saints and their mess and now I’m in it up to my eyeballs.”
“I’m in it up to my eyeballs too,” I whined, twisting my fingers together in my lap. “How did this happen?”
“No idea,” he replied, running gentle fingers up and down my back in a soothing motion. “I knew nothing about it until last week. There’s been gossip at the station and one of the guys who ran me to hospital did some legwork for the detective heading up the case.”
“Start at the beginning,” I pleaded. “I don’t understand.”
Jack kissed my temple and then ran a pink tongue over his full lips, picking his words with care. My brain felt foggy with confusion and nothing made sense. “Someone tipped off a detective last season, claiming a gambling syndicate operated within the premier soccer league. The informant said All Saints were at the centre of it with two other clubs. The betting service lays the odds and takes money from members of the public who choose which club will win or lose that week. There are bets for anything; the range is incredible and hardened gamblers will place bets on what time the sun comes up each day if they can find a bookie to take it. Anyone can bet on anything if they’re willing to risk their money; who scores the goals; what minute a goal will be scored in; the final score or the number of red or yellow cards given. It’s all up for grabs. This Asian Handicap system has caused heaps of problems in European soccer because there’s no draw; only win or lose.”
“Why didn’t I know about any of that,” I mused. “I scored some goals last season. Do you think the four people on average who showed up for our games were gamblers?”
Jack kissed my head again and crushed me closer. “Sorry. I don’t know if they bet on women’s soccer,” he said, sounding regretful.
“Typical!” I snorted. I pushed myself away from him so I could watch his face. “Is it illegal to bet on soccer?”
Jack frowned. “No, but it’s illegal to rig the games so that certain gamblers get massive payouts. That’s cheating.”
“So this detective somewhere thinks All Saints are cheating?” My eyes widened and I couldn’t stop the laugh which emerged. “Oh my gosh! Could they throw them out of the premiership?” I imagined my father’s disgrace and wondered if he’d allow his wheelchair to be rolled onto the grass of a first or second division pitch.
Jack maintained his serious face, ignoring my sniggering. “They’d be thrown out of New Zealand football, Ula. And anyone associated with All Saints. A team a few years ago in Europe were kicked out of the Champions’ League for throwing a final.”
“Oh.” It didn’t sound so funny anymore. “That’s really bad. Who told the detective? Can’t they be more specific about who’s doing it so the detective can catch them red handed?” My eyes widened. “Is it possible All Saints cheated in the final last season?” My voice rose to a squeak. “But they won.”
Jack stroked my fringe back from my face and his words sounded like nails on a blackboard. “They’ll sort it out, baby. But they can’t talk to the informant anymore, Ula. He died in a car accident, hours after meeting with the detective.” His eyes told me everything his lips couldn’t as he held me in a firm embrace.
“Pete.” My voice sounded dull and flat against the sounds of traffic in the street outside and my body felt numb beside the hardness of Jack’s muscular body. “Pete informed.”
I shoved Jack from me, hearing a hiss as my flailing caught his wrist. I stood and backed away, shaking my head. “Is that why you’re here?” I demanded. “Pretending you’re horny and wa
nting to rekindle something which never got started?” I sounded hysterical. “You’re trying to make detective and I’m your means to an end.”
“No, Ula.” Jack stood. He waved his arms at my lounge and sparse furnishings and shook his head. “Me, my current situation; it’s all real. My life sucks and I came here hoping that...” He stopped before his feet went into his mouth and he choked on his own words. I had no plans to resuscitate him. “I wondered if we had a chance but yes, my ulterior motive is to protect you. There were millions of dollars at stake and the syndicate won’t stop if they’re onto a good thing. You can be sure they’ll run the scam again this year.”
“So, Pete wasn’t involved?” I asked, covering my face with my hands. “He didn’t cheat?” I remembered his playing style and fierce competitiveness. I couldn’t bear to think it might have been an act. Pete’s soccer was the only thing about him which still seemed truthful in the face of everything else.
“They don’t know.” Jack approached me, his arms by his sides. “Maybe he found out and wanted it stopped or perhaps he’d been involved at the start and wanted out; who knows?”
“I don’t want to believe it,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. “So the cops are watching everyone; me, Dad, Uncle Terry, all of us?”
Jack winced and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Oh my gosh, no.” I bent double and grabbed my knees, waiting for the faintness to stop as the floor tiles whirled around in my peripheral vision. “I just bought a fifty grand car and paid off a ten grand loan early.”
“I know.” Jack patted my back and forced me upright, leading me back into the lounge and helping as my legs collapsed onto the sofa. “That’s why I asked so many questions about it.”
“I can’t tell you.” My eyes filled with tears. “And I don’t even know where he got the money in the first place. It might’ve been dodgy.” I resisted the urge to bawl like a baby but my chest gave in early, like always, spitting ugly sobs into Jack’s denim shirt while my nose left telltale trails of snot.
