Blood Ties

by A. J. Quinnell

  A. J. Quinnell is the pseudonym of the author of ten novels including Man on Fire which was made twice into Hollywood Films - most recently directed by Tony Scott for Twentieth Century Fox in 2004, starring Denzel Washington, Christopher Walken and Dakota Fanning. The book sold more than eight million copies in paperback and was translated around the world.

  Full list of titles:

  Man on Fire

  The Mahdi

  Snap Shot

  Blood Ties

  Siege of Silence

  In the Name of the Father

  The Perfect Kill

  The Blue Ring

  Message from Hell

  Black Horn

  BLOOD TIES

  A. J. Quinnell

  First published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton in 1984

  Copyright © 1984 A. J. Quinnell

  Published by CLLA

  The right of A. J. Quinnell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted to him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  ISBN: 978-1-908426-07-9

  Contents

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Book Two

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Book Three

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  The lift stank, or rather the people in it did, and yet again Kirsty Haywood regretted not working on a lower floor.

  It stopped all the way down, people pressing in, until she was wedged into a rear corner behind a bald-headed man wearing a diagonally checked overcoat and sucking on the burned out stub of a fat black cigar. He turned to a hook-nosed woman at his side and grunted: “So I told the guy. OK. For crissake steal a little; but leave a little! Goddam book-keepers!”

  Sure, Kirsty thought. Always blame the book-keeper. The fat slug had probably been skimming his company and partners for years.

  The doors opened on to the ground floor and the occupants spilled out. Kirsty followed with relief, exhaling her pent-up breath. But the odour in the entrance hall was almost as bad. She pushed through to the kiosk and without a word the grey-haired old negro handed her the usual packet of mints and gave her the usual wink which seemed to signify a conspiracy. She smiled back wanly, remembering the first day twenty years before when his hair had been less grey and the wink marginally more provocative.

  Out on Seventh Avenue a freezing wind quickly cleared her nostrils. It even dissipated the exhaust fumes from the usual six o’clock traffic jam. She pulled up her coat collar and. sucking a mint, hurried up-town in typically New Yorker fashion. Eyes straight ahead, heels clacking briskly on the pavement, hands plunged deep into pockets; and busy swaying and weaving automatically to avoid the maelstrom of other pedestrians.

  She paused at 41st Street, waiting for the lights to change. Sleet began to fall and umbrellas mushroomed out. She had forgotten hers. She pulled a scarf from a pocket and draped it over her blonde hair.

  January in New York. The city had been paralysed for the last two weeks by snow. It had been really bad, with a wind chill factor of twenty-five below. It even kept the muggers at home.

  Once again, no buses.

  Kirsty sighed resignedly. Yet another long trudge home through the slush. Vapour rose in ghostlike gusts from the subway vents, torn away in the arctic wind. A siren wailing from the vicinity of Broadway. Next to her a well-dressed man snarled at a woman behind who had been clumsy with her umbrella. She snarled back.

  Kirsty was impervious to it all. She had been born and bred in the city. Sirens and snarls; impatience and indifference, were the hallmarks of her milieu.

  A green light flashed ‘walk’ and the well-dressed man was elbowing past her, pig-skinned briefcase held sideways like a battering ram. She walked across town deliberately avoiding the sordid 42nd Street and Times Square area. She remembered, as a child, being taken to the theatre there by her parents. It had been like going to fairyland. Gleaming black limousines, fine women in long flowing dresses. Excited crowds waiting to catch a glimpse of a star. Over the years she had watched the almost imperceptible metamorphosis. The encroaching of hookers and pushers; and men with eyes furtive, or glazed with drugs. Sex flashing in flickering neon and the garbage of humanity strewing the streets.

  For several years now she had routed her twice-daily journey to keep clear of the place.

  As she angled up-town the pavements thinned and her pace eased slightly. She wondered why Larry wanted to meet her at Baileys – it was usually ‘his’ place or ‘hers’. Mainly ‘hers’. He had been oddly cryptic on the phone, merely suggesting that they have a couple of drinks before dinner. The bar was only two blocks from her apartment but she had never been there. In truth, she had only occasionally been in bars at all.

  The sleet intensified and she ran the last few blocks, pulling up under the striped awning, panting from the rare exercise. She pulled off her scarf. It had afforded little protection. She endeavoured to straighten her hair and then pushed open the brass-bound door. It was dimly lit inside and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She saw a room decorated in Victorian style. A burgundy carpet, red satin wallpaper with a raised, swirling design in black. Tasselled blue lampshades and mahogany coloured tables and chairs upholstered in red velvet. There was a long bar at the far end and, in a corner, a baby grand piano being tinkled by a bored-looking redhead dressed in black. There were half a dozen men at the bar and they turned to appraise her. Larry was not among them. They were all of a type she recognised immediately: young to middle-aged salesmen and junior executives, all dressed conservatively and all looking nervously expectant. Instantly she realised that she was in one of the new, so-called ‘singles bars’. She glanced at her watch. Six thirty. Larry was uncharacteristically late. She considered waiting for him outside, but she could see the sleet driving even harder at a window; and at least the bar was warm – even overheated.

  She unbelted her coat, shrugged it off and hung it on a stand by the door, to more appraising looks from the bar. Uncomfortably cold and damp, she sat down at a table. A peroxide waitress with a lot of teeth and pushed-up breasts sauntered over and took her order for a whisky sour. She felt irritated. Why had Larry wanted to meet her? And why was he late, knowing it was such a place? Larry must use the place frequently for business, and know a lot of the guys who drank there. No doubt, she reluctantly admitted to herself, he would like to be seen walking in and claiming an attractive woman.

  It took only five minutes. After a whispered conversation, one of the men climbed off his stool and approached with an ingratiating smile.

  “Hi, I’m Ray,” he said, gesturing at her glass. “How about a refill?”

  She shook her head and he stood there, trying to keep the smile on his face.

  “You’re alone?” he asked.

  “Waiting for my boyfriend.”

  “Uh huh. Look,
why not join us till he gets here Maybe he’ll be real late.”

  “Thanks – I’d rather be alone.”

  “OK . . . OK.” He turned and shrugged elaborately at the watchers at the bar and walked back.

  Within a few minutes the place started to fill up. The ratio of men to women was about five to one. Kirsty observed the mating ritual: the glances and the body language. Drinks offered and sometimes accepted. She could imagine the opening gambits.

  “Hi, where do you work, or are you a lady of leisure?”

  “No kiddin? Used to know a guy from Macy’s Sportswear. Buyer . . . Big guy . . . What in hell was his name? Sure I’ve seen you in here before . . . First time? No kiddin?”

  “Me . . . I’m in sweaters. Top end. Nothin’ under ten ninety-nine . . .”

  Kirsty looked again at her watch and decided to leave, but as she reached for her bag Larry walked in. After hanging up his coat he grimaced at her apologetically, then walked over, waving casually at several acquaintances. He bent over her chair to kiss her on the lips but she turned her face, offering only a cheek.

  The waitress brought him a Martini, glanced at Kirsty’s half-empty glass and raised an eyebrow. Kirsty shook her head.

  Larry gulped half of his drink and surveyed her carefully across the table. He was in his mid-forties, tall and slim and with a hint of grey at his temples. He almost looked distinguished but his clothes gave him away. He was wearing a dark grey suit cut in the new ‘tube’ style popularised by Cardin. It would have suited him with the right accessories, but he wore a pale yellow shirt with a green tie, the knot of which was unstylishly large; a matching yellow handkerchief protruded from his top pocket to an extent that decried fashion. He looked, thought Kirsty, exactly what he was – a moderately successful salesman for a large textile company. He would never graduate to the executive office.

  “You’re mad at me. Sorry, but I was just leaving when that prick Kaufman came into my office and started bitching about late deliveries for the spring line . . . as if that’s my problem.”

  She shook her head. “I just don’t like being left alone in a place like this. Larry, it’s a pick-up joint.”

  She saw the irritation cross his face.

  “Come on, Kirsty, it’s 1965. The girls in here are working girls just like you . . . secretaries, sales girls, book-keepers . . . times change. They want equal opportunities . . . why shouldn’t they go out alone if they want to . . . and if they meet a guy, so what? I guess a lot of them are lonely.”

  “OK, but it’s not my scene . . . and you know it. Can we go?”

  As they moved to the door he made a point of holding her arm intimately.

  They plodded along First Avenue in silence to her small apartment. In the lobby he watched as she anxiously checked her mailbox and saw its emptiness reflected in her eyes.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” he said quietly, and she shrugged and echoed, “Maybe.”

  The rest of the evening followed its predictable course. For all his enthusiasm for the liberation of women, Larry never extended it to domestic matters. He watched a boxing match, drink in hand, while Kirsty heated up the chicken casserole she had prepared in the morning, and laid the table.

  During dinner his attention constantly strayed back to the TV. He murmured conventional words of appreciation about the food, and a few muttered enquiries about things in the office. As she cleared away the plates she knew that as soon as the boxing match was over he would want to go to bed. She sort of hoped it would go the distance. She even considered sending him back to his own apartment for the night, but he was leaving on a sales trip in the morning and would be away several weeks. She did not have the heart to do it

  She was ambivalent about his going: on the one hand looking forward to being alone; on the other, frightened of being lonely.

  They had been seeing each other for the past two years. It was a relationship more convenient than exciting. Naturally shy, she found it difficult to meet men. He was a divorcee without children and, with his travelling, made few demands of her. It was only after Garret had left that he took to staying over once or twice a week. Occasionally they went out to the movies or for a meal. With his alimony payments and her own tight finances they could not afford extravagance. Once he had talked vaguely about taking a holiday together in Florida. Another time, even more vaguely, about marriage. She guessed that he probably slept with other women on his trips. Once she had smelted Vent Vert on one of his jackets. She never used it. She had made a futile effort to summon up jealousy.

  As she dried the last of the dishes she wondered why she let it go on. She was still attractive and looked much younger than her years; knew the affect she had on men, had fielded their glances. She decided that something had gone out of her when Kevin died – and something more when she had watched Garret sullenly and silently packing his suitcase. The two men in her life had each distilled so much love, so much awareness and ultimately so much pain that unconsciously she could not face the prospect of going through it again – so she settled for Larry.

  She heard a whoop from the living room and then: “Jeez! What a fight!”

  A minute later he came quietly into the kitchen and moved up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, squeezed them and nuzzled her left car. He always did that. Then he cupped her breasts and, with thumbs and forefingers, rolled her nipples beneath the thin fabric. He always did that.

  Twenty minutes later he was snoring gently beside her. She was looking up at the ceiling. A nightlight was on the bedside table. Since Kevin’s death she had never been able to sleep in the dark. She was tense and her depression had deepened. As always, she made a conscious effort not to compare and, as always, was unsuccessful. It was not that she had failed to climax. That often happened, even with Kevin; but then it seemed immaterial. Climax or not, she had always been relaxed afterwards. Kevin used to make her laugh in bed. It was always a game – an adventure. She used to think that she got as much pleasure from his orgasms as he did. And when she had her own they were momentous, the memory of which would tingle through her days later.

  But Larry was deadly serious in bed. She had early curbed his enthusiasm to talk throughout the act, questioning every reaction. He was an egotist, proud of his virility and technique. Not knowing that without invention they can be a boring combination.

  As usual the foreplay had lasted about seven minutes. First her lips. Then her breasts. Then the probing finger between her legs. Her body had responded automatically and, at the precise moment when he judged that her juices were flowing adequately, he had rolled on top of her, grunting seriously. She had made the usual responses, her mind separated from her body. Feeling warmth and a distant sensation, but no intimacy – no joy. The ten normal minutes, and then Larry increased the squelching and, with a final oblivious grunt, spurted into her and after a pause rolled off with ritual murmurings. He fell asleep almost instantly.

  Kirsty couldn’t sleep. She felt, as ever, abused. She lay awake looking at the ceiling.

  “Why?” she asked herself yet again, but the ceiling had no answer. Tears formed in her eyes.

  “Kevin why? Why did you have to make that mistake? Why risk what we had? Why leave me?”

  She struggled against the tears and tried to drive Kevin from her mind. She used her only recourse – Garret – their son; conceived with so much joy, love and, yes, even fun. The little cabin, the log fires, that glorious autumn week they had spent in Vermont. She tried to picture him now, at that moment: his blond hair, always too long. His serious, mobile face reflecting, for her, vulnerability. She closed her eyes against the tears and tried to conjure him up in her mind from across the world.

  It was six weeks since his last letter and yet she could remember every word, every full stop and comma. She tried to find nuances and sought love and understanding.

  But the words were impersonal. A short litany of events. A mere communication, perhaps even a mere formality. No. The last words held hope.<
br />
  “I move on tomorrow. I’ll write again soon.”

  What was soon? Six weeks was not soon. Was he all right? Was he even alive?

  Again she had to wrench her mind away. She thought of the morrow and what it would bring, and then sighed at the question. She knew precisely.

  First she would get up with the alarm and put on a robe. While Larry used the bathroom she would make his breakfast and then watch, sipping her coffee, while he silently ate it. She could never eat herself when she first got up.

  Then he would leave, giving her a kiss and a hug. He always did that.

  She would go into the bathroom, shower and go through the routine of make-up. A critical eye looking into the mirror for signs of age – a line here, or a wrinkle there. Why? Did it matter whether she was a child or a geriatric? Why did she need to be attractive? For herself?

  Then the habitual dreary long walk to 498 Seventh Avenue. She hated taking the crowded bus, even if it were running in this weather. Stopping on the way at the deli for a danish and another coffee. Then to her cubicle on the fifteenth floor. Then the books and the columns, and paper cups of coffee and the pastrami on rye for lunch and more coffee, and the walk home. To be alone. Just another January day.

  She turned and put an arm over Larry, trying to draw warmth and solace, but there was no reaction. Tomorrow would be just another day.

  It was in the beginning. The alarm; making breakfast; watching Larry eat it; the shower and the make-up. Locking the apartment door; going down in the lift. Seeing the old janitor sweeping the lobby floor; asking him, as always:

  “Morning, Riley. Has the mail man been?”

  And then it changed. He looked up and gave her a toothless smile.

  “Mornin’, Miss Kirsty. Sure an’ there’s a letter for you. An’ it don’t look like no bill.”

  Her eyes moved to the row of mailboxes on the wall. Very slowly fumbling in her bag for the key, and with a silent prayer she walked across. Her hand was shaking and she had trouble getting the key into the lock. Then the lid was open and the letter was in her hand and a joyful sigh shook her as she recognised the writing.