‘Which is?’
Solomon didn’t respond, except to maintain his smile. They sat in silence a while, on the clifftop with dusk gathering around them.
It was Lorie who spoke first, resignation in her tone by now. ‘I loved you,’ she began.
Solomon replied, simply, ‘I know.’
The sea heaved and swelled beneath them, sloshing against the rock face. ‘I’ve never understood why I wasn’t good enough.’ She paused for a response. Vincent didn’t accept the invitation. ‘I’d never have asked you or wanted you to change for me.’
He looked directly at her now. ‘That’s where you went wrong.’
She glared at him. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘Well, quite.’
‘What does she have that I don't?’
‘If you don’t know that already . . .’ The sentence trailed off. ‘I don’t have a spare couple of hours to supply a comprehensive answer.’ Vincent stood up and began to smooth his trousers and then press the crease between his forefinger and thumb. ‘I think I’ll go inside now.’
Solomon began to turn toward the house.
‘Vincent!’ Lorie said, standing and lunging at his arm. ‘Who was she?’
‘Take your hand off me,’ he said, and Lorie obediently did. ‘Nathan’s girlfriend?’
‘She wasn’t “Nathan’s girlfriend”.’ Lorie closed her eyes, opened them. ‘Who was she?’
Solomon eyed her carefully, weighing options. Would the knowledge that Nathan has messed about – in every possible sense – with a policewoman deter Lorie from returning to England? Stirring the law was the last thing Lorie needed. He made a decision.
‘Kerry Marshall.’
‘One of yours?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
Lorie clenched her lips together, before saying, ‘Do I know her?’
‘Yes, and no. She’s a policewoman, same one that saved Naomi as it happens, so she’s earned my protection. Get the picture? I’ve marked her as untouchable and informed the players. No one goes near her, including you.’ Solomon stopped to slide his hands inside his pockets. ‘She’s the one who arrested you at the cemetery gates.’
‘Her?’ Lorie’s mouth fell open. ‘I remember her eyeing Nathan, that little whore.’
‘Voice down,’ he said, and Lorie rolled her eyes in frustration. They were filling with tears again. ‘So now you know.’
Lorie turned away from him and wiped her eyes.
‘I’ve told you, he isn’t worth your anger or your grief. This house is a gift. Use it and make a life for yourself here. Dig up some treasure on the beach. There are plenty of guys strutting about like peacocks in loud shorts. Net yourself one, Lorie, and stay away from England. If you go home, you’ll be sorry.’
Solomon eyed her one last time, relieved that the profound boredom aroused in him by Lorie’s company coupled with this place, was finally coming to an end. He turned his back on her and began long, measured strides toward the house.
‘You can’t force me to stay here,’ Lorie called after him.
Lorie would never know the lightness in Vincent’s step, or see the contentment on his face as he drifted toward the house, blanking her desperate comment and filling his mind with happy thoughts of returning home to England. And to Naomi Hamilton.
Soon now.
8
Lorie woke up very early to another flawless summery day. Memories of the night before piled in and choked her peace. She sighed out all the stale air from her lungs. Her eyes stung. She hadn’t slept well at all. She never thought she’d catch herself thinking this way, but she decided that summer in March felt all wrong. She should be in jeans, socks and boots. She should be putting on her woolly jumpers and dragging gloves over her fingers and draping scarves round her neck every day. Maybe life out here would feel different if Nathan was here. They’d dreamed of this kind of a life and of leaving England for good. She’d never really considered her mum in those plans, if she was honest. But now there was nothing. And today, she was finding that the sunshine was an irritation and a reminder that she was far from home and from what family she had left.
She decided to gauge what kind of mood Vincent was in and see if he’d relent. She’d promise to stay away from him in England, do whatever it took. No point in wondering why he didn’t want her to return to England. He’d have his reasons and he’d never divulge them. But she was curious about his ‘life-changing’ plans, and any thoughts of him with Naomi made her want to stick a knife in Naomi’s neck. Whatever Vincent was planning with Naomi, would fail. She comforted herself with this. She felt sure that, in the end, he’d be just like her, miserable and alone. And then . . . maybe, just maybe . . .
She sprang out of bed with purpose. Vincent’s bedroom door was loosely closed. She crept up to it and knocked gently. When no response came back, she pushed it open a couple of centimetres to find a shockingly vacant room. The sight of it thumped her in the chest, kick-starting her heart. The bed was stripped, and no sign of the bedding. The blinds were open; the morning sun flooded in. No trace of Vincent at all. She wandered into the bathroom to find a gleaming sink, toilet and shower, as if he’d never been there.
‘Vincent,’ she called, though she sensed that it was futile. He’d slipped away without her noticing. How? She’d been awake for half the night.
She wandered into the lounge and dining area, all of it open plan. Everything was faultlessly clean, just the way that Vincent expected it, the only way he could live.
In an instant, she felt desolate; a desperate sensation of panic and emptiness enveloped her. They’d had months together and now it was over. Odd how the absence of one person could make the place feel so empty and soulless. Strange how shocked she felt when she knew this day would come and had anticipated it with heavy dread. Her legs gave way and she sat on the sofa and, in the silence of the morning, allowed her mind to stray.
She’d wanted Vincent Solomon for as long as she’d known him, almost nine years in all. Wanting him manifested itself almost like an illness. She could feel sick, feverish and elated simultaneously. Soaring highs, grovelling lows. It could be accompanied by a deep aching, or by periods of feeling too robbed of energy to work. Finding Nathan – or more accurately, it was Vincent who’d found him for her – had brought a kind of remission and an outlet for the longing. Nathan had been the ideal tonic. Now he’d gone too. She’d never spoken to Nathan about her feelings for Vincent. There seemed no point.
So the long weeks with Vincent had been both blissful and painful. More blissful than painful, definitely. Even the pain was undeniably pleasurable. The perfect paradox. Wanting Vincent and listening to his voice and catching the rhythm of his breathing, and making a study of him while he ate, and fought then found sleep, absorbing the colour of his eyes and the way his hands moved when he was deep in thought – the entire experience had been glorious and surreal.
But wanting someone who didn’t want her and who took care never to touch her or to sit too closely or to engage in conversations too deeply, had been excruciating too. Worst of all was having to listen to what Vincent did want. And with whom. On that topic, he hadn’t spared Lorie’s feelings at all. Lorie had never discovered how he intended to realise his ambitions. The only certainty was that he wouldn’t win. Couldn’t win. Not this time.
Still, the fact that he was prepared to leave England, to leave his club, his home and everything that he valued in order to pursue some master plan he’d cooked up that served his interests with Naomi Hamilton, was consuming Lorie now as she sat, rigid as stone, burning with scenarios.
It was a while before she felt inclined to climb out of her foggy thoughts and wonder about the day ahead. It all seemed so pointless now.
She wandered into the room where Vincent had slept and collapsed onto the bed again. She found herself opening the drawers on each side of the bed. They were as empty as she was. In his bathroom, the scent of bleach met her in the doorway
. She lifted the toilet lid without a reason. Even the toilet bowl was spotless. The floor was clean too. Not so much as a single hair.
Beside the toilet was a tiny white bin. She pressed a foot pedal which lifted the lid and was surprised to find a few bits in the bottom. Vincent had left a tiny footprint? She almost smiled. He prided himself on never leaving traces. She dipped a hand in and pulled out a used razor, a few bits of paper and a toilet roll tube. The paper had scribbles in Vincent’s handwriting. Eight fragments of paper. She realised they had been torn and that the eight parts made a complete picture.
She wandered into the bedroom and dropped everything on the empty bed and arranged the puzzle until it read like this:
Alona my heart. Oui.
‘Alona my heart. Oui,’ she repeated numbly.
Above it was a line of writing scribbled out in black ink so that she couldn’t make out a single part of it. Was it only half a message?
Lorie stared at the words and at Vincent’s handwriting that slanted to the left and had no loops. The letters were small, neat and narrow. ‘Alona my heart. Oui?’ she muttered again. ‘The start of one of his poems?’
Who knew?
Lorie sauntered to the kitchen where she taped the paper together. Then she put it in her handbag and made a snap decision: she wasn't staying in Sydney alone or alona anymore. She’d work out on the long journey to the UK whether or not to confront Vincent or to slip beneath his radar permanently. There’d be enough hours on the flight to consider options. And enough hours to think about his weird meanderings on her taped up bit of paper.
Later that day, when Lorie had almost emptied her bank account by booking an expensive flight home, she heard the approach of a noisy car. She stepped outside, closed the apartment door and guided two large suitcases down the path. She climbed into a waiting taxi as the driver loaded her cases into the boot of the car. She checked her watch. Thirty-six hours and she’d be home. Thirty-five and she’d need her jeans and jumpers because she’d be touching down on English tarmac.
A delicious thought.
***
Lorie got a taxi from Manchester airport to her flat. Vincent’s note was in her pocket. She’d glanced at it from time to time during the long journey home, but her brain had felt too sluggish for concentration. She’d slept for a chunk of time and felt sick and disorientated for most of the rest. It was all a blur now, but here she was. It was nearing 8 p.m. The taxi chugged into her road in Stretford.
England. Glorious England! At last.
She was exhausted and the clock inside her body was way out, but, oh – the relief to be home. She climbed out of the cab and told the driver she’d need to grab some money from inside to pay him.
Without waiting for his reply, she made a dash for the flat door, found her way inside and ran up the stairs, keys at the ready. The flat was on the first floor. When she tried to insert her key in the lock, she found it didn’t fit. She checked the key. It was definitely her key, her flat.
It was the lock that was different, now that she examined it. How could Vincent do this to her, give her nothing to come home to? Her entire life was behind the locked door, out of reach. Furniture, clothes, everything.
She could still hear the noisy taxi engine spluttering outside as she stood, floundering.
Now what?
Lorie pulled up Vincent’s number and called him. She was shaking with fury.
The ring tone seemed to scream in her ear.
Until, ‘Yes?’
‘Vincent, at last. I’m home and I’m locked out. Why have you changed the locks? I have no money and –’
‘I’ve provided you with a home, Lorie. No one needs two.’
The line died.
‘Vincent?’
A car horn sounded outside. Lorie rushed at the stairs and emerged panting out of the front door. The taxi driver was back at the wheel having turfed her two cases onto the street.
‘Fourteen-sixty, love,’ he called out of the window.
Her cases were standing up like soldiers. Lorie didn’t have a single English penny in her purse. And right now, she had nowhere to live either. She could have thrown up on the pavement.
‘I’ve lost my key,’ she said, too weary and embarrassed to be truthful.
‘Fourteen-sixty, love.’
‘Look, I need to get to a cash machine. Can you drop me in the city centre?’
‘Just been called to another job.’ He couldn’t cover his irritation.
‘I’m sorry. Without money, I can’t pay you.’
He sprang out of the car while Lorie stood, thoughts far away. Next thing, he was throwing her cases into the back of the cab again and taking no care at all.
‘Where do I know you from?’
Lorie shrugged and offered nothing.
‘Get in.’
The journey dragged. The driver spun round corners and coughed a bit, but didn’t speak. Lorie was in the back of the car on her phone. Since she’d shifted it from aircraft mode, a text from her mum, several hours old, had buzzed in. She studied it now. It said, ‘Came home today to find all your things dumped in my front garden. Furniture, clothes, a suitcase full of books, papers etc. Going to need Ted’s help to move it. I never hear from you, then this happens! What’s going on?’
Lorie swallowed. Ted was the friendly neighbour. How friendly, Lorie didn’t know.
Her fingers were shaking on the keypad. ‘No idea, Mum. Just arrived in England and tried to get into my flat. Locks have been changed!’
Lorie stared at her screen, but nothing came back. The car charged round bends and hurried through traffic lights. Lorie decided to call her mum. It was maybe best just to talk to her directly. Her mother was her only option, which was rubbish really. The relationship wasn’t great, but Lorie hadn’t bothered to analyse that in years. Too much hassle. Since Lorie’s dad had died, her mum had been depressed and needy. Last thing Lorie had wanted in her twenties, so she’d shrugged her mum off and left her to sort herself out. Even before her dad died, things had started to turn sour with her mum. Looking back, it was around the time Lorie had taken the job with the Hamiltons and moved in with them. Her mum had wanted her to pursue a ‘proper’ career, not waste her life on a privileged brat. She’d been a real cow about it, so she only had herself to blame that she was lonely now. Unless Ted . . .
The landline rang on and on and Lorie lost her chain of thought. Pick up, Mother! She tried her mum’s mobile. Always a last resort because the woman never answered it. As expected, nothing. Was she in Ted’s house? The thought infuriated her.
‘Come on,’ she muttered to herself. She tried the landline again, frustrated now, and got the same result.
By this time, the driver was in the city centre and had rattled to a stop outside a bank.
Lorie hurled herself out of the cab and ran to the cash machine. The machine promptly ate her card and refused to spit it out.
‘You’re kidding me,’ she yelled. She bashed on the glass with the side of her fist, but the machine didn’t give a crap.
She glanced over her shoulder. The driver had thrown her cases onto the pavement again.
‘Nineteen pound thirty,’ he called, yanking up his jeans from halfway down his backside.
‘It’s swallowed my card.’
‘Are you for real?’
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she said.
‘I’m calling the police.’
‘No, look,’ she walked toward him briskly, improvising, glancing at her hands. She was wearing a ring that Nathan had bought her when they’d been away together one weekend. It was silver with three fake diamonds in a row, a twenty quid job. To the untrained eye, it could have been platinum and diamonds. The only other thing she had to trade was her watch. A 21st gift from her mum and dad, worth £500 or so. She touched the ring from Nathan and couldn’t bring herself to take it off. Twenty quid or not, Nathan had gone for ever and this ring was the only thing she had left of him besides memories.
An angry voice said, ‘I haven’t got all night here.’
‘Look, take my watch, until I can get some money.’
‘What do I want with a watch?’
‘It’s valuable. Worth a lot more than twenty quid. I want it back. When I get some cash, I’ll exchange my watch for the money, OK?’
‘Do I look like a pawn shop? Whatever, just give it here. I’m late for a job.’ He held out his hand.
Lorie began to tease the watch from her wrist. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Den Banks.’
Lorie reluctantly held out the watch and Den Banks snatched it and sped off in his taxi. She memorised the name of the taxi company as he screeched around the corner.
Street Cars. Den Banks. Street Cars. Den Banks.
Easy enough!
She deposited Den Banks’s name in her personal bank of memories and looked about her at the darkening sky. Despite the regular traffic flow and the scatterings of people wherever she looked, she’d never felt more alone. Even her secluded apartment on the clifftop thousands of miles from here, was preferable to this. She’d been safe there at least. Secure. Happy, until Vincent left.
There’s nothing for you in England, Lorie.
The icy air crept up her legs and seeped through her jumper and cardigan. She’d grown unaccustomed to the sensation. And to think that, back in Sydney, the idea of chilly nights in England had been a romantic one. Not here like this. Not shivering on an unfamiliar street in central Manchester, with no money or shelter.
There’s nothing for you in England, Lorie.
Something close to panic possessed her, as she stood looking anxiously up and down the road. She decided that the only practical thing she could do was to phone Vincent again, explain things properly, help him understand.
She felt a little better pulling up his name, as if she had someone out there who she could lean on, a person who’d shared a chunk of her history and who would rescue her at a miserable time. It felt more bearable to look like the kind of person who was making arrangements, than the person who was actually standing here: a penniless twenty-something with two giant cases and no home.
Shadows to Ashes Page 7
