Shadows to Ashes

by Tori de Clare

  They disembarked, dodged bodies and cases in the airport terminal and found a man bearing the signpost, Solomon. A nod and he turned and led them into bright sunshine and to his speedboat, a water taxi. Solomon put on his sunglasses. Naomi sat in the cabin. The driver was behind a windshield at the front, while Vincent stood in the open area at the back of the boat, alone.

  The boat skimmed across the water in a lane, identical water taxis skidding past on the left every so often. Naomi sat on the verge of her seat, open-mouthed, watching the passing scenery through the window and Vincent watched her while the wind cut through his hair and clothes.

  They stopped beside a wooden jetty, hemmed in by baroque buildings. Flowers tumbled from boxes and pots on the walls. Naomi stood eagerly and Vincent waited until she’d climbed out of the boat before he followed her. The driver jetted off the instant he was paid. The splendour of Venice lay before them, a million secret avenues, a thousand bridges.

  While her attention was elsewhere, he touched her now, briefly, lightly, he glided his hand across her back until he felt the tuck of her waist through thin wool. She didn’t move.

  He withdrew his hand before she could object. ‘First trip to Venice?’ And she nodded. ‘First impressions?’

  ‘Breath-taking. I mean, I’ve seen the pictures, but . . .’

  ‘There’s nowhere like it. All God-botherers should visit St Mark’s, so I’ll take you there when we’ve shopped. Agreed?’ She nodded again. Having held her in silence for so long, he was impatient to prise her open now.

  They strolled for twenty minutes, weaving through tall buildings, traversing canals over bridges, cutting across vacant squares edged with quaint houses, little shops and churches, the sun confident against a cold breeze. Solomon asked her about music, favourite composers, the repertoire she’d covered on the piano. This he did without offering an opinion, just encouraged her to talk. After an inhibited few minutes of stifled responses, she warmed to her subject and began to express herself with her hands and eyes. Away from the house, the game, she was forgetting who he was, what he was capable of, what he wanted from her. What he’d done.

  She was spellbound by the place, intoxicated by the scents, the colours, sights and sounds.

  They reached a row of shops which branched into a busy square. Solomon stopped walking. ‘Whose money are you spending today?’

  She looked at him directly. ‘Mine.’

  ‘And what’s the most you’ve ever spent on a dress?’ he asked her.

  Her eyes flickered skyward while she consulted her long-term memory.

  ‘About a hundred and forty quid.’

  ‘That might get you a scarf in here.’

  She shrugged, refused to look fazed. ‘I have money,’ she said. ‘Might as well spend some of it.’

  ‘Don’t let me catch you enjoying yourself. This is just business, remember?’

  Solomon opened the nearest door and the warmth of the shop pulled them in. A woman with bleached-blonde hair and a row of earrings in one ear, approached them. Solomon pointed her in Naomi’s direction.

  He said, ‘Farla apparire favoloso. Che non dovrebbe essere troppo difficile.’

  Naomi looked at him, a question in her eyes. What?

  ‘I told her to make you look fabulous, which shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘I don’t need any help to choose clothes.’

  Solomon looked her up and down. ‘I disagree.’ He turned for the door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t part with any money without my opinion.’

  Solomon left the shop.

  Exactly an hour later, he returned. Naomi had an armful of dresses and the blonde woman was holding things against her. She’d be on commission. It was in her interests to extract as much cash as possible from customers.

  Solomon strode up to them.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said to Naomi.

  From the way she held back, Solomon read that she’d been keen to have this all wrapped up by the time he got back. But she was genuinely undecided. Reluctantly, she held up five dresses one by one. Solomon offered no opinion.

  ‘Which one would you choose?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’m thinking this one,’ she said, holding up a black Valentino dress. ‘The assistant prefers the pale green one.’

  ‘You’re both wrong.’ He nudged closer. ‘She’s looking at the price tag and you’re playing safe. When are you going to take risks? Your skin has undertones. When I see you, I see a rage of bright colour. The purple one. Classy, but sexy. Totally you. Pair it with the white Stella McCartney coat. I’ll select a bag and shoes and we can be out of here in five minutes. She’s a waste of time.’

  ‘She can speak English.’

  ‘I know.’

  Naomi rolled her eyes, past embarrassment. ‘What if I don’t want to look sexy?’

  ‘You know you do! You intend to keep my attention.’

  ‘Who says I want your attention?’

  ‘I do. That’s why your dress selection in the evenings has become more . . . adventurous.’ He pinned her with one of his gazes until her cheeks subtly coloured.

  ‘I just like the dresses,’ she objected.

  ‘And I get to see more of your legs. Win-win.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘I didn’t know you were looking.’

  ‘Yes you did.’ She wouldn’t avert her eyes, but it was an effort for her to keep eye contact.

  ‘If you were just going to choose a dress for me, why did you even leave?’

  ‘To give you space to choose. Everything you do teaches me something about you. And I like to learn.’

  ‘Look, I can make my own mind up, thank you.’ But she was looking over at the white coat by now. An excuse to cut the eye-to-eye?

  ‘Fine.’ Vincent stood patiently waiting until Naomi handed four dresses to the assistant, retaining only the purple one.

  ‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘I can’t be bothered to think about it anymore. Better things to do.’

  There we go. He refrained from smiling. Solomon already knew exactly which shoes, which bag and she was ready to agree to anything now. The stock in here was familiar to him. There was only the formality of trying on. Within a short time, having run up a bill of more than six thousand pounds, they were heading for men’s shoe shops and the delights of soft Italian leather.

  ***

  The afternoon passed in a mystical haze of shops, bridges, stunning buildings, St Mark’s church, fairy-tale avenues. It was a stroll through history. The sun dipped in and out of cloud. Gondolas slipped beneath them as they stood on one bridge after another, water sloshing against brick. An hour before they were due to leave, Solomon guided Naomi inside a salon and spoke Italian again.

  Lei è naturalmente bella. Non rovinare la sua.

  Naomi looked at him, the same question in her eyes.

  ‘I told her you were naturally beautiful and not to ruin you.’

  Ignoring the comment, she said, ‘I don’t want my hair cutting.’

  ‘Good.’

  He spoke to the woman again. She nodded.

  Solomon said, ‘She’ll style your hair, do your make up. Agreed?’

  ‘If I hate it, I’m washing it off.’

  ‘She’s reportedly the best in Venice. She’d better know what she’s doing.’

  Naomi shrugged. Vincent said he’d be back to collect her and it would be straight to the airport from there. Then he left again.

  Naomi sat very still. The woman either couldn’t speak English or didn’t want to talk, which was a relief and gave Naomi time to examine her thoughts. While the woman in the mirror circled Naomi, movements sharp and precise, expertly pinning, curling, spraying, her face fixed in concentration, Naomi had a conference with herself. She was well used to these confrontations in the quiet courts of her mind. She was two people again, one part of her summoning the other, the timid part wanting to run away.

  Her stern self was pressing for honesty. Her impulsive self didn’t want to be i
nterrogated, refused the task of finding vocabulary for her feelings. Time passed and the conference took over and the two women in the mirror faded away and the two voices inside her head were gaining clarity.

  By the time Vincent Solomon returned through the door fifty minutes later, Naomi was uncomfortably aware of two things and could not be unaware of either of them. She knew that the stranger in the mirror, hair part pinned up, part tumbling in loose curls, makeup flawless, looked incredible. And she knew that the second thing made her want to run to the confession boxes in St Mark’s church and then cleanse herself in the Grand Canal. She couldn’t look at herself any longer. She stood up and said thank you, for something to say.

  Solomon studied her and wet his lips and she busied herself with bending down, collecting bags. Neither of them spoke as he settled the bill and she stepped ahead of him into blinding sunshine and felt the heat of his hand gently and fleetingly press into her lower back, reminding her of the despicable truth she couldn’t escape.

  Whenever he touched her, something inside of her woke up.

  ***

  Dan had a meeting. In it he was instructed to attend a rehabilitation course lasting several weeks. A see-things-from-the-victim’s-perspective kind of class. Just so that he could begin to comprehend the magnitude of what he’d done, what he’d deprived his parents of. Right! Dan didn’t argue. These things were mandatory, so it was pointless to sit there and tell them that in actual fact, he’d been his parents’ only joy before the police had hauled him in for questioning. That he’d been a valued member of the hospital team where junior doctors were squeezed of all their youth, talent and energy and expected to put in fifty plus hours a week, sometimes more.

  He did manage to wangle a poetry class out of the meeting though. Why poetry, Stone? His answer: why not poetry? He already had A* grades in all the sciences and in maths and further maths. Poetry and creative writing was neither an interest nor a particular strength of Dan’s, but he was willing to try new things and challenge himself. They could see the logic; they agreed. In reality, poetry classes for Dan equalled one extra hour out of his cell a week without colliding with complete nutters.

  Wrong. When Dan entered the dingy classroom in anticipation of poetry, he discovered three other men, one of them Skinhead, Seth Holloway. Dan’s steps faltered. He was genuinely shocked and was tempted to do a U-turn, tell the screws that poetry wasn’t his thing after all. He didn’t because Skinhead looked up and X-rayed him, as he had ever since the canteen incident. Four chairs were arranged in a semicircle. Only one available next to Skinhead Seth. The other two guys were huddled away from him so Dan sat in the remaining chair.

  A guy in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt who introduced himself as Gavin, was standing ready to teach the group. He handed out paper and blunt pencils. This was the kind of place where a sharp pencil could become an arrow in someone’s eye, so precautions were taken for every small thing; adults were treated like young kids who couldn’t be trusted.

  ‘OK,’ said an enthusiastic Gavin. ‘Anyone heard of Samuel Taylor Coleridge?’

  Seth’s hand went up first. Dan’s second. Neither of the other two moved. Dan wondered how Seth was familiar with an ancient poet.

  Gavin nodded. ‘English poet born in Devon in the latter half of the eighteenth century. Studied at Cambridge and was a contemporary and friend of Wordsworth. We all familiar with Wordsworth?’ Four heads nodded now. ‘OK, good. Both contributed enormously to the romantic movement which swept Europe and elsewhere in the early nineteenth century. More about romanticism later. First, I’m going to read one of Coleridge’s most famous and revered works. Maybe work in pairs.’ He paused. The pair to Dan’s left both looked at each other, which sealed the deal, meant that Dan was left with Seth. Great! ‘So,’ Gavin said, ‘I’ll read out Kubla Khan and I want you to write key words or phrases, anything that jumps out at you as a theme. We’re going to look at the elements in this poem, so you might write something like nature, or weather – just key themes or anything noteworthy, right? When I’ve finished reading, I’d like you to discuss what you’ve written with your partner and you can bounce ideas off each other, we clear?’

  A few grunts. Gavin held up a slim book and began to read slowly and expressively. Still, the thing made little sense. Dan scribbled a few words with great uncertainty and Seth’s pencil began to work hard. He didn’t stop writing until Gavin had finished speaking and put the book down. Gavin didn’t speak again, just did a hand signal indicating it was time to turn to a partner for discussion.

  While Gavin was distracted, putting his book down, Seth reached over and deposited his sheet of paper on Dan’s legs and snatched the few words Dan had written. Dan looked at Seth then looked down. There was a note, barely legible. It said, So you’re in Solomon’s circle, as I suspected. Don’t bother denying it again. I’m not stupid. Repeat, Jimmy was my mate. You have nothing to fear from me, but I don’t like liars. How much do you know?’

  Dan stared at the words, reread them. In them he saw threat, danger, fear. And opportunity. He hadn’t planned or prepared for this. Rabbit in headlights. While the words blurred into one another, Gavin said, ‘I can’t hear much discussion. Come on lads, talk. It’s how you’ll learn.’ Gavin was pacing towards them, hands behind his back. His presence bought Dan a little time.

  Dan looked at Seth, said, ‘So what do you mean by that?’

  Gavin was close by, ‘That’s it, get things out in the open, lads,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid to voice your thoughts.’

  He turned, began to stroll the other way to listen in to the other pair. Seth leant closer, lowered his voice. ‘What did Vincent want? You didn’t look pleased to see him. What’s he after?’

  Dan was in very murky waters here. Could get things very wrong. His mind was blank but he needed to say something. Seth’s – quote – sworn enemy, Marcus, had asked him the same questions so instinct took over now, for consistency’s sake he had to say the same things. Dan said, quietly, ‘I’m not one of Vincent’s players and I wasn’t lying. Vincent wants my girlfriend, which is why I’m in here. He wanted me out of the way. He came to gloat, OK? To tell me she’s moving in with him. If you’re Jimmy’s mate, sorry you lost him, but I’m no mate of Vincent’s and I never knew Jimmy.’

  Seth narrowed his eyes, but he seemed to relax a bit. ‘The badge?’ he said, eyes shifting to Dan’s arm though his arm was covered. ‘Explain.’

  Dan had learnt his lesson. Trade. Don’t be a pushover. ‘Your turn to answer my question. Who killed Jimmy?’

  Shock registered on Seth’s face though he worked to cover it. Dan was painfully aware that he was shunning Vic’s advice, which might be really stupid and could badly backfire. But Dan wasn’t prepared to run scared. You had to act tougher than you really were. ‘Jimmy died. Who told you he was killed?’

  ‘Probably the badge,’ Dan said, pointing to his arm. ‘Seems Jimmy was quite the celebrity in here. People think I knew him but I didn’t. Just heard a few whispers, that’s all and wondered how true they were. Also . . .’ A thought occurred to Dan in a flash. To convert it into words, he borrowed time by snatching a glance at Gavin who was still listening in to the other pair. He looked back at Seth who appeared to be holding his breath expectantly. ‘ . . . Jimmy was brought to the hospital for a post-mortem where I worked as a doctor.’ This was utter fiction, but Dan was banking on Seth having no knowledge of what happened to Jimmy’s body after it was carted out of B wing.

  ‘Post-mortem?’

  ‘Yeah. All accidental deaths have to be investigated by a pathologist. Course, Jimmy’s death was long before my time as a doctor, but I know the guy who examined Jimmy’s body. He’s a friend of mine.’ Another outlandish lie, but Seth had no way of disproving a word of it and just might take the bait. Dan had Seth’s full attention now. Seth licked his lips wolfishly, almost slavering in anticipation of discovering whatever Dan knew. Gavin was sauntering towards them again.

 
As Gavin drew near, Seth made a show of looking at his sheet of paper, the one he’d snatched from Dan. ‘You know that Coleridge was high as a kite when he wrote that poem?’

  ‘No,’ Dan said, surprised now. Seth didn’t actually know anything about poetry, did he?

  ‘He was addicted to opium. Took a dose before going to bed one night and had a weird and awesome dream. When he woke up, he had the entire poem in his head and began to write. But he was interrupted by a visitor and lost whole chunks of it by the time he sat down again, which is why it sounds fragmented. But that’s how Kubla Khan was born.’

  ‘Really?’ Dan asked, genuinely impressed.

  ‘Yeah – just a guy high on a trip, his imagination running riot.’

  Gavin butted in. ‘Holloway’s right,’ he confirmed. His lips had curled into a smile. ‘Carry on.’ Satisfied, Gavin swung the other way to check on the pair who didn’t seem to have a clue what to talk about. That’s when Seth shuffled closer. ‘That describe you, Stone? An addict? Vincent your supplier and you’re in here fishing around for information while your imagination tells you that you’re a doctor who once worked with pretty young nurses?’

  ‘I’m telling the truth,’ Dan lied. Time to mix the lies with solid truth. ‘I am a doctor. I first met Vincent because he came into the hospital with a gash and I stitched it up for him. If you look at the palm of his right hand, he has a scar two inches long. I had no idea who he was, but he decided I could be useful to him so he invited me to his club as a thank you for stitching him. I went with my brother. They were two of a kind, Nathan and Vincent. My life got screwed pretty badly after that. But I’m telling you, I’m no killer, and no addict. Ironic how Vincent stitched me up in the end.’

  ‘Only, I could get you –’

  ‘You’ve got me all wrong,’ Dan insisted. ‘I don’t use. Full stop. Look, you think what you want, but I hate the Solomons for what they’ve done to me. I’ll never budge on that.’

  Holloway nodded thoughtfully, glanced over at Gavin who was crouching down, explaining a couple of things to the other pair. ‘Tell me about the post-mortem.’