“What have you been up to?”
I shrugged. “TV.”
“Did you eat?” Samuel bypassed me, heading straight for the kitchen. I didn’t respond, knowing he’d find the answer in the empty sink, the clean countertops.
A minute later he was back, two tins in his hand.
“Soup, or beans?”
I raised one eyebrow, smiling in spite of myself.
“Is there toast?”
He looked over his shoulder, then back to me.
“No.”
“Soup, then.”
He nodded and disappeared, and I heard the clatter of a pan banging down onto a stove. He was going to make me dinner? Intrigued and amused, I pulled myself to my feet and wandered through to the kitchen. It was compact, the units beige with ugly brown handles, the oven rusting at the corners but clean enough. Samuel had rolled the sleeves of his green shirt up to his elbows and was stirring a wooden spoon in a dented silver pot.
“It’s tomato,” he said, looking up to see me loitering in the doorway. “That all right?”
“Yeah,” I shook my head, incredulous. I moved forward, reaching for the spoon. “I can do that.”
“I got it.”
He waved me away, so I sank down on a hard wooden chair, watching him work. He spun round and grabbed two white bowls from a cupboard high up on the wall opposite, rinsing them in the sink before dumping them down beside two spoons. He must have sensed me watching him, because he looked up, smiled. I smiled back. I was glad that the dark mood he’d been in earlier, when he’d dropped me off here, had disappeared.
“What did you tell him?”
“What?”
Samuel went back to stirring the soup, but there was a defensive hunch to his shoulders.
“What did you tell Alexander?”
He shrugged, non-committal. I waited, playing with my tongue between my teeth. Eventually Samuel sighed.
“He thinks I’m seeing Natalie.”
Natalie. Samuel’s girlfriend. For some reason hearing her name brought the taste of bile to my tongue but I made sure to keep my expression clear.
“What if he finds out you’re not?” I asked.
“There’s no reason why he should.”
But Samuel didn’t look at me. He was concentrating on pouring the heated soup into the bowls, focusing on the task like he was assembling a nuclear bomb.
“Samuel… I don’t want you to get into trouble. Because of me.”
Balancing a brimming bowl in each hand, Samuel strolled over to me, taking the only remaining seat on the other side of a wobbly oval-shaped table.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said as he placed my meal in front of me.
“But—”
“Lizzie!” he said my name sharply, cutting off my protest. “I said don’t worry.”
I said nothing, picking up my spoon and needlessly stirring the steaming red liquid before spooning a mouthful to my lips. It blistered my tongue and throat, but my stomach growled gratefully. I studied Samuel as I ate. He seemed relaxed: the hand that wasn’t gripping his piece of cutlery curled into a loose fist and resting on the tabletop, his broad shoulders leaning casually against the back of the chair. He didn’t look back at me, but stared over my head towards the small window above the sink, a square of inky blackness.
Without thinking, I said the first thing that came into my head.
“Samuel,” I paused, and he flicked his gaze to mine. “Why are you nice to me?”
“What?” He grinned, his forehead creasing in confusion.
I blushed, squirming slightly in my chair and half wishing I’d kept my mouth shut, but asked my question again.
“Why are you nice to me? I mean,” I rushed on before he could answer, “you lied to Alexander for me; you gave me that phone when I went on the job with Cameron; you talked Alexander out of sending me on a suicide job; you took me to M—Mark’s,” my voice stuttered over the name, “and here you are. Again. I just… I just wondered why.”
Samuel stared at me for a long moment.
“Do you wish I hadn’t done all those things?”
“No…”
“Well then,” Samuel gave me a tight smile and went back to his soup. I frowned down at the remains of mine, dissatisfied.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I made as much noise as I could, clattering the dishes into the sink and sending water gushing down from the mixer tap. There was no washing-up liquid, but I scrubbed noisily at the bowls and the saucepan with a battered-looking scourer. Anything to fill the quiet. Samuel stayed where he was in the chair, watching me. Our positions were reversed, much more like normal, yet I was highly uncomfortable.
It seemed Samuel and I had nothing to say to each other. The polite norms of conversation – the weather, how we’d spent our day, what we thought of the government – just seemed ludicrous in our, my, current predicament. What I really wanted to talk about – what I was going to do, what Samuel thought I should do – was the elephant in the room that I couldn’t bring myself to address. And Samuel, well I’d no idea what Samuel was thinking. He seemed content just to sit, quietly thinking, but his eyes were serious, sombre.
I wracked my brain for a safe topic of conversation.
“So, you and Natalie. Is that going well?” I tried to smile blithely, but I realised as soon as I’d said it that I was treading on dangerous ground. Relationships were something friends might discuss, and whatever Samuel and I had, it wasn’t friendship. I bit my lip and waited for him to tell me it was none of my business, for him to put me back in my place.
Instead he sighed.
“Natalie and me?” There was a mocking tone to his voice that made me look up. He was grimacing ruefully. “There is no Natalie and me, not really. Alexander thinks she might be useful. Her father has contacts,” he explained. I nodded, trying to look like this was news to me, like I hadn’t overheard the conversation Samuel had had with Alexander. “But we’re not, I mean… There’s nothing there. Nothing real. To be honest, she does my head in.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t. Though I didn’t want to admit it, a tiny part of me was pleased to hear the dismissive way Samuel spoke of her.
I’d finished the dishes, but I lingered by the sink, rubbing at imaginary spillages on the countertops. I could only do that for so long, though. Eventually I had to return to where Samuel sat. We eyed each other; him relaxed and solemn, me anxious and on edge. The long seconds drew out, the tinny sound of the television drifting in through the open door.
“Are you going to take off?” I asked at last.
It was the least important but most urgent on my list of questions.
Samuel didn’t answer at first. He considered me, his fingers drumming on the tabletop.
“I should,” he said slowly. I grimaced. “Do you want me to stay?”
“I don’t want to be on my own,” I admitted.
“Poor Lizzie.” Samuel shook his head and heaved himself to his feet, ruffling my hair as he passed. He moseyed across the kitchen, returning seconds later with two small glasses and a bottle of amber liquid three-quarters full.
“No Coke,” he said, slamming the glasses down and half filling them. “You’ll have to take it like a man.”
I grinned. He’d come by car, I knew. The evidence, a Ford key, lay tossed carelessly on the table before me. If he was drinking, he was staying. My immediate fears temporarily allayed, I took a swig from my glass, then choked. The whisky was cheap, burning my throat, setting my chest on fire. It tasted awful, but it felt good. I gulped the rest down, trying not to let it stay too long on my tongue. The burning moved down to my belly.
“That’s nasty,” I said, my eyes watering a little.
“It’ll get better,” Samuel promised as he refilled my glass. He’d downed his own in one.
It did get better. A bit. A very little bit. But I found, as the level sank lower and lower down the
label of the bottle until there was only a dribble left, that I really didn’t care. The soup in my stomach was no match for the percentage alcohol in my glass. I got drunk. Very drunk. And sleepy. I didn’t even notice that I was sitting with my head slumped down on the cool formica until I felt Samuel’s hand gripping my upper arms, pulling me from the chair.
“Come on,” he whispered in my ear. “Time for bed.”
Hanging on to his shoulders, I let him lead me through the living room and up the darkened stairway into one of the upstairs bedrooms. He lowered me gently down onto the bed, then I felt his body heat seep away as he stood up. I didn’t like that.
“Where are you going?” I mumbled, tightening my grip.
“Back downstairs,” he said, his voice low. “There’s only one bed. I’ll take the sofa.”
“No,” I frowned, shaking my head in the dark. “Don’t leave me.”
I heard him sigh, but he stopped trying to pull out of my grasp.
“Lizzie—”
“I don’t want to be on my own,” I slurred, no more than semi-conscious.
There was a moment’s pause, then I felt the mattress shift as Samuel settled down beside me.
“Thank you,” I breathed.
“You’re welcome,” his voice was a murmur in my ear.
I smiled, and wriggled backwards into the cocoon of his arms. Thanks to the drink-haze I felt comfortable, at ease. Warm, and so, so sleepy.
“Do you want to know why I’m nice to you?” Samuel whispered.
“Mmm?”
But I was gone, and his reply fell on deaf ears.
In the morning I woke up to an empty bed, stark white light, and a blinding hangover. I groaned, rolled over, tried to hide my eyes under the covers, but the movement sent a wave of nausea through my body. My stomach churned uneasily and saliva flooded my mouth. Awareness dawned just in time for me to scramble out from underneath the covers and run to the bathroom. I flung the door wide open and dropped to my knees, sticking my head over the pan just in time for whatever was left of the whisky in my stomach to expel itself from my mouth and nose. I wretched, choking and gagging as it burned my taste buds savagely.
Afterwards I dropped my head down onto the cool plastic of the toilet seat, groaning quietly as the world spun around me. The sickly sweet, acidic fumes floated up and I felt my stomach heave again in protest. Reaching up blindly, I fumbled for the flush, keen to get rid of the evidence.
Unfortunately my raging hangover didn’t disappear with the vomit. I rinsed out my mouth at the sink, then used some ancient-looking toothpaste and my finger to try and brush my teeth. There was a battered medicine cabinet on the wall above the sink, but it was empty bar a cheap Bic razor and a pile of plasters. Disappointed, I closed the door to stare at myself in the cracked mirror. I looked horrendous. My skin was pallid, my hair sticking up everywhere. Dark circles ringed my eyes and my mouth was turned down – a result of the twisting in my stomach and the pounding in my head.
Turning away, I stared down the stairs. I could just make out the outline of Samuel’s leather jacket at the bottom of the banister. He was still here then. Relief took the edge off my headache, but I hoped he hadn’t heard me being sick.
His face when I walked into the living room told me that he had. It was both pitying and amused, but he didn’t speak and he held up his hand to silence me. He was on the phone.
I waved, but I didn’t move to sit beside him on the sofa. If he was talking to Alexander or Zane, he might not want me to listen in. I remembered how he’d pushed me away on the bus the day before.
“Yeah, yeah I understand,” he paused, covered the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand and turned to me. “Make us a cup of tea, will you, Lizzie?”
I gaped at him, but he’d gone back to his conversation.
“What? No, she’s nobody. Yeah. So tell me exactly what it is you’re looking for.”
I moved slowly towards the kitchen, completely confused. Who was Samuel talking to? I wasn’t remotely bothered about being referred to as ‘nobody’ – after all, that was the truth – but I couldn’t imagine who would be far enough removed from Alexander’s circle for Samuel to casually throw my name out.
By the time I’d made the tea – no milk but I found some clumpy sugar in the cupboard – and returned to the living room, Samuel was wrapping up, saying goodbye and arranging to call again once he’d made the ‘preparations’. He rang off and reached for his tea, gracing me with a grateful smile.
“Thanks, Lizzie.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask who he’d been speaking to, but I knew it was none of my business. Instead I sipped my tea in silence, feeling the sugar and caffeine kickstart my system.
“How are you feeling?” Samuel asked, eyes raking across my pallid face.
I tried to smile. “Okay…”
He smirked, but nodded in acceptance. Embarrassed, I dropped my gaze to the floor, noted that his feet were encased in heavy black boots.
“You have to go,” I said. It wasn’t a question, and I did a poor job of hiding the trepidation in my voice.
“Yes.” Samuel sighed, considered me.
“Can I stay here?”
He nodded, but there was a trace of hesitation in the furrowing of his brow. I knew what he was thinking. Yes, I could stay here for a day, maybe two, a week at an absolute push. But not for ever. Because Samuel couldn’t keep disappearing, couldn’t keep providing me with food, or money, or clothes. Not without Alexander finding out. This was a temporary fix, not a solution.
Tears stung my eyes.
“Samuel, what am I going to do?”
He didn’t give an answer. Either because he didn’t have one, or, more frighteningly, because there wasn’t one.
I looked down at my hands, clinging to the residual heat of my empty cup. Samuel’s hand drifted into my vision, pulled the cup out of my unresisting fingers, and curled around my knuckles, squeezing gently. His touch was much warmer than the chipped china, but not enough to chase away the chill that had me firmly in its grasp.
“Lizzie, Alex doesn’t know where you are. He won’t find you here.”
Alexander hadn’t known I was at Mark’s either, but that hadn’t stopped him. I trusted Samuel, though. He knew his brother; if anyone could keep me free of Alexander’s clutches, it was Samuel.
“I know,” I spoke to my knees. “But I can’t stay here for ever.”
“Come here,” Samuel pulled on my hand, tugging me into his side. I let him draw me in, but kept my face firmly cast down. I didn’t have the alcohol to numb away my inhibitions any more, and it felt awkward to be tucked in Samuel’s embrace. Awkward, but nice.
“It’ll be all right,” he murmured into my hair. It felt almost like he dropped a kiss onto the top of my head. I didn’t move, frightened he’d remember himself and pull away if I so much as shifted on the sofa. “I’ll help you,” he promised.
“To the Scottish border?” I asked.
“Is that what you want?”
I shook my head. But where else was there to go?
We sat there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I stared down at a faded patch on Samuel’s knee, and he stroked his fingers absentmindedly through my hair. The couple of times I dared to glance up at him, he was staring off into space, deep in thought. Eventually he sighed.
“I have to go,” he said.
He took his arm from my shoulders and stood. Instantly I felt cold.
“Here,” Samuel handed me something. It was a plug, with a long snaking wire growing out of one end. “A charger for the phone I gave you,” he explained. “Keep the phone switched on. I’ll call you later. In the meantime—”
“Stay inside and stay quiet?” I looked up, a ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of my mouth.
“Right,” he smiled at me, green eyes crinkling at the corners, warmth I hadn’t seen before on his face.
“Where are you going?” I tried to sound innocently curious. I didn’
t fool him.
“I’m not going to Bancroft Road,” he said. “Not this morning, anyway. I’m going to the Zone. There’s something I have to pick up. In fact—” He wandered away from me, into the hall where he rooted around in the depths of his jacket pocket. When he came back he held a small tub in the palm of one hand. “Would you help me out?”
He opened the tub and held it out to me. It was half full of thick beige cream. Concealer.
I got up and approached him. Dipping two fingers into the gooey substance, I paused. Samuel’s tattoo stood out less than mine, thanks to the slightly darker shade of his skin and the shadow of stubble that grazed his jaw, but it was impossible to miss, now that I was looking at it. Strangely, it was something I didn’t usually notice. It was just part of his face, like the straight black eyebrows that hooded his eyes, or the scar running down his left temple. A handsome face, in a tough, masculine kind of way. A face I’d never touched. My fingers stalled, nervous of reaching out, nervous of Samuel.
I watched him watching me, raising one eyebrow questioningly as I prevaricated.
“Lizzie?”
“Sorry,” I shook my head a little, then lifted my hand and smeared the make-up across his left cheek. In three deft strokes I’d hidden the Celtic knot, but I took my time to blend the edges in to the tone of Samuel’s skin, enjoying the tiny bristling hairs scratching at the soft skin of my fingertips. When I’d finished he looked just like anybody else. But not like him.
“How do I look?”
“Wrong,” I wrinkled my nose. “But passable,” I amended, knowing that was what he was looking for.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Here.” He put the top back on the make-up and handed it to me. “Just in case.”
I watched him shrug his way into his jacket then head for the door. I was struggling not to pout, or burst into tears. What the hell was wrong with me?
“I’ll call you later,” he promised, pausing to give me a half smile before he disappeared through the door.
I stood there, not quite sure what to do, but then the hangover that I’d almost forgotten jumped back into the foreground, throbbing and spiking and punishing me. For lack of any better options, I went back to bed.
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