Nemesister: The gripping women's psychological thriller from Sophie Jonas-Hill

by Sophie Jonas-Hill

  ‘No it’s not—’ I gasped. Through her tears and her pleading, Lisa frowned at me, trying to understand what the hell I was saying, knowing I wasn’t talking to her.

  ‘You going soft on me now, bitch? Look what the fuck she put you though, look what the—’ my finger tightened on the trigger. Lisa sucked a great gulp of air into her lungs, and got hold of me, her hand squeezing my forearm. ‘She’s gotta know,’ Margarita told me. ‘She gotta know, doll, what she did. You know it.’

  I’m not sure if it was Paris I heard first when he swore, when he jolted in surprise and took hold of Lisa to pull her away; or if it was the striking of a heavy foot on asphalt behind me.

  ‘Now, ain’t this sweet,’ Red said.

  I wrenched myself from Lisa and faced him, a rendered silhouette stood against the light. The tension in my arms burned to my fingers, and before I’d time to think, I reached behind and got hold of Lisa, and she let me, and she softened against me, and trusted me.

  ‘No, oh, fuck, no—’ she went to clutch at my hand, the hand that was holding the gun.

  ‘You dead,’ Paris yelled, his hand on Lisa’s shoulder. ‘You kill’ him, I thought you killed him, girl?’ He nearly went to put his hand on my shoulder too, big old Paris sheltering us both, keeping hold of his assets.

  ‘Oh, she had a damn good try,’ Red said. ‘But boys like me don’t go down easy.’

  I grabbed Lisa’s wrist behind my back, and pressed the gun into her hand.

  ‘Take it,’ I hissed, and I got between her and Red, shielding both from him. Red raised the shotgun he was carrying to his shoulder.

  ‘Hate to crash the party here,’ he said. ‘But you weren’t fixin’ on leaving town without me, was you?’

  ‘No, no …’ Lisa sobbed, batting at my hand, not sure what I was trying to do. I turned for an instant, closed her fingers around the gun, then I raised my hands and faced Red.

  ‘It’s me you want,’ I said.

  ‘You reckon?’ he raised an eyebrow. ‘You so sure ‘bout that?’

  ‘I was the one, I killed you.’ I stepped forward, ignoring the flaw in my reasoning.

  ‘No!’ Lisa grabbed for me but I shrugged her off.

  ‘Make you feel good do it boy, hidin’ behind a woman?’ Red sneered.

  ‘Hey, fuck you, I ain’t scared of you,’ Paris said, though he stayed behind me and Lisa, hiding behind the both of us.

  ‘Let her go,’ I said, watching the barrel of Red’s gun follow me. ‘You got me, you got me now, so you let them go.’

  ‘Really?’ Red lowered the gun.

  ‘What you doin’?’ Lisa sobbed behind me.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I said, not looking round. ‘Just you go an—’ Red hit me with the butt of his gun, cracked it into my shoulder. I went down. Gravel bit into my arms and hands as I landed. Lisa screamed. I scrabbled in the dirt, groping to get my hands over my face, pressing them to my nose. I blinked up, face now oozing sticky redness, feeling it gushing over my lips. The slice of sky between the towering big rigs whirled and refracted above me; Red’s form stark and black and cut out in rainbows. He pointed the shotgun down at me one-handed, the other slung nonchalantly in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Don’t think you gonna be enough, no more,’ he said.

  The shot cracked through the space between us. I twisted – but it wasn’t me that was hit. Red spun away, impacted onto the flank of the truck and fell, the gun cartwheeling out of sight.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Paris bellowed. I heaved myself up, still on the ground and stared at Red’s body. There was a gaping hole in the back of his jacket, mushy and blueberry dark.

  ‘No,’ Lisa sobbed, the gun she’d taken from me, the gun I’d given her and she’d fired, still in her hand, her white face melting into panic. As she began to scream, I grabbed at her legs, trying to embrace her, to hush her, but she kept on screaming.

  ‘What the hell you done?’ Paris demanded. ‘Baby, what the hell you done?’

  ‘Lisa, I never meant – Jesus fuck, Lisa!’ I staggered to my feet.

  Paris went to get hold of Lisa, then didn’t, then gripped his hair with both hands. He was already backing away from us, checking his exits, up on his toes and ready to run. ‘We gotta go, baby, we gotta go!’

  ‘He was gonna kill her!’ Lisa tried to say, but the words came out in a raw sob, ‘gonna kill you an’ her an’—’

  ‘What the fuck you done?’ I yelled in her face. ‘How the fuck you think I’m gonna sort this?’

  She tried to say she was sorry, tried to get hold of me, pleading and pleading. The gun fell from her grasp, then Paris tried to grab her.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we gotta go, come on!’

  ‘You want this? You fuckin’ have her,’ and I pushed Lisa toward him. She turned to him, and I saw him look at her. Then he looked at me with those eyes, those amazing dark blue eyes.

  ‘Eyes are like birthdays, women always take more notice of them.’

  Then he ripped Lisa’s pocket book from her hand and began scrabbling through it.

  ‘Paris—’ Lisa seemed strung out between us, not knowing which of us to turn to. ‘Paris?’ I saw the flash of metal as he ripped car keys from her pocket book then slung it back at her. She made no move to catch it, and it hit the ground, landing with a dull, wet thud.

  ‘This your mess,’ he snarled.

  Lisa grasped for him, but he slapped her hands back.

  ‘Paris!’ This time she got hold of him, dragging on his arm, one hand then the other, small fingers almost blue looking, an underwater creature trying to pull him back down with her. He pushed at her but she kept on clawing at him, saying his name over and over, ‘Paris, Paris,’ like the way it had buzzed about my head before I knew what it meant. ‘Paris, I love you, I—’ then he hit her.

  ‘You think I love you? The pair of you crazy bitches go fuck you’self, you ain’t worth this shit.’

  I wondered if he might look at me again, but he didn’t. He shrugged his shoulders as if brushing off a mosquito and reached the end of the trucks in three, loping strides. He slowed his pace just enough for it to count as a walk, until his nerve broke and he disappeared from sight across the parking lot at a run.

  A sound hiccuped from Lisa, and she turned to me, mouth open. I knew she was trying to say my name.

  ‘Oh, fuck it.’ I grabbed her and pulled her towards me. With my arm around her shoulders, we stumbled away from Red. We made the end of the truck, then limped toward my silver car as I fought in my pocket for the keys.

  Lisa was still shaking with sobs, scrubbing at her face with her hands. Her headscarf came loose and fluttered away across the parking lot. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck,’ she was saying, ‘Oh Jesus, you see him, you see him?’ There was a screech of tyres and a car broke from the pack, heading for the exit. Its rear end swung side to side as Paris cornered too fast.

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ Lisa bellowed after him. ‘You fucking two-faced bastard!’ She pulled against my grasp as if she meant to start running after him, her face running with tears and spittle. ‘You … I’m gonna—’

  ‘Shut up!’ I jerked her back round, made her look at me. ‘Shut the fuck up. Right now everyone’s looking at him, you want them to look at us?’

  ‘But what we gonna do, we ain’t even got a car, we ain’t—’ Lisa began, but I grabbed her wrist and started running, dragging her after me. ‘Wait …’ she fought me all the way to the silver car, ‘I never meant to, oh fuck, I never—’

  ‘Keep moving,’ I yanked on her arm, and when I looked back, I saw people had come out of the casino, ants round the white sugar cube building, watching Paris cross the central reservation and head toward the freeway. He was at least making enough racket to draw their gaze for the moment. Lovers’ tiff, I told myself, if any of them come over and ask, lovers’ tiff, nothing more to see here. And the bastard’s stolen her car too, can you believe it? I clicked my car keys, opened its door and shoved Lisa inside.

&nb
sp; ‘What … what’s gonna happen, what we gonna do?’ she asked, clinging to my arm as I tried to get her inside. She sat down, then at once tried to get up again. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I never meant …’ but the crying came again, too strong for her to finish. She was shaking, her face white and bruised black, both trying to fight me off and pull me closer. ‘You gonna help me, you gotta, you …’ So I hit her.

  I punched her face, a good hit to the eye, one Ralph the personal trainer would have been really impressed with. It felt as good as hitting Red in the swamp, better even, because this time there wasn’t a moment’s doubt that she deserved it. She was almost too stunned to make a noise, just sucked back down a scream and clutched at her face with both hands, as if this was the first time she was really, truly scared. I wanted her to be scared, I wanted her to be more scared than when we were children. I reached down, grabbed the neck of her blouse and pulled her face up to mine.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I said, and my voice was cold and hard and river-water black. ‘Feel good, does it, now you got what you wanted?’ She was shaking, pressing her lips together so as not to speak, hardly able to open her left eye where it was already swelling shut. ‘That’s what you wanted, right? Red dead, you bein’ his wife an’ all, his next of kin. How’s it feel, Lisa, huh? Just how does it feel to kill someone, like for real, close up?’

  She didn’t answer. She was crying too hard, fighting for breath, crying like she’d never cried when we were children. I felt my grip loosen, my fingers numb with the effort of holding her. I let her drop back into the seat and stood up.

  ‘I guess now you know, right?’ I slammed the car door and clicked the central locking. ‘Now I’m gonna clean up your mess.’

  I made the shadow of the truck and, once I was out of Lisa’s sight, leant my hand on it and drew breath, for what seemed like the first time in hours. The shock of it, of everything, crowded in on me, and the thought of what she had done, of what I’d done, made my legs weaken under me. I thought I was going to fall, sink down on my haunches and press my hands to my face, only Margarita mentally slapped me.

  ‘Get up. We ain’t done yet … not unless you wanna go down for a crazy long time,’ and she was right.

  I skirted round the truck, glancing side to side. The people outside the casino were still there, watching Paris’s vapour trail. In the alleyway between the trucks I headed toward Red’s prostrate form. I slowed as I approached, and came to a stop beside him. I took a breath, knelt down and dipped my finger into the dark, sticky hole in the back of his jacket. Then, I licked it clean.

  Chapter 29

  THAT MORNING, I’d driven at dawn along the wide, wet, hot streets, waiting for their shoals of people. As I’d come through the empty, sidewalk-free suburbs, past low, lazy houses of clapboard and twine, I’d felt that the whole place was little more than a rainbow film of chicken grease, hair oil and heartbreak, glistening on the surface of a rock pool. What lay beneath was something other: alien and glorious.

  I found Red’s house, Carillon. It was far enough away from everywhere else to give the impression it was standing with its toes at the edge of that rock pool, hands extended yet not daring to dip a finger below the surface. All that might have swirled around it seemed to have left no mark; through war and rebellion, flood and famine it had remained aloof – a white death’s head picked clean by time, with an expression of polite disdain. From where it sat you could just about see the dark fuzz of the city and, I imagined, when the river had finally broken free in the teeth of the hurricane, Carillon would have afforded a front row seat to all that had been done and undone by it.

  I was not sure if I intended to climb the gates, presumably replacements for the ones Lisa had destroyed when she left, or ring the bell, or climb on the car and try and scale the wall, so I did none of these. I pulled up, got out and stood there.

  I doubted Red would be out jogging, not with the mess I’d made of his leg, but habit fashions a man; and so I guessed he’d be up already, army life being what it was. Would he see me, as he stood at his bedroom window, the early morning sunlight catching on the windshield of my car? Or would he be on his veranda – because the place was sure to have one – with his morning coffee, the steam curling from the mug to join the damp air that promised heat? Probably not; it was most likely the two security cameras that slowly turned to look at me, that must have given away my arrival. No matter. Immodest thought though it was, I knew wherever he was, he would already have been thinking about me too. The wound on his leg would be enough to remind him, though the pain would until the scar was nothing more than a lopsided white smile, grinning up at him; years later it would still make him think of me, as I’d think of him. We’d cut deeper than flesh.

  I’d tried to pretend Margarita was falling in love with Paris, but that was a lie. I’d thought I was thinking of nothing but Lisa, but that was wrong too. All the time I’d been thinking of Red. I couldn’t call it love, but though I’d told myself I was doing everything to destroy him, all I’d done was pay him the greatest compliment of all, and given him my full attention. As I’d run through the dark evenings of my cold, northern-light-lit home town, I’d not been running from him, but to him.

  The squawk box on the gatepost spluttered into life. ‘What the hell you doing here?’ it demanded. I put my hand on the gatepost and leaned into it.

  ‘Breakfast,’ I said. There was a long pause as the squawk box chewed things over. It considered turning me away, no doubt considered calling the cops, but in the end curiosity won out. The gates clicked and swung reluctantly open.

  As I drove along the gravel drive, the house fluttered and rearranged itself; snapshot memories collaged into reality. Lisa had forgotten to mention the fountain at the front and the glorious colours in the borders that lined the drive; but the melancholy trees were just as she’d said, verdant widows bending their heads for the departed. And yes, there was a veranda. All in all, it felt as if I’d just driven up to a place I’d previously sketched in a dream diary.

  I came to a stop at the foot of the steps and Red opened the door. I watched him limp down toward me, shirt hanging open, loose fitting cotton pants clinging to his legs, hinting at the bandages beneath. He came up and stooped to look in at my window.

  ‘See you been shoppin’ already,’ he said, his gaze darting over the car. His lip was puffed up on one side, a stunning array of bruises complimenting it across his cheekbone. It suited him; he wore them well, like another man might wear a custom-made suit.

  ‘I bought supplies,’ I said. ‘My mother’s a terrible cook, and my father was a paedophile, so you’ll have to take your chances.’ Red looked down at me, elbow on the roof of the car as a sly, lazy grin dragged on his swollen mouth. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘I figure I owe you breakfast.’

  ‘Breakfast?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You think that’s what you owe me?’

  ‘Sure, mind you …’ I shrugged. ‘It was my food too last time, seeing as I’d stocked up the day before, but you cooked it, so fair’s fair, I guess?’

  He slapped the car and stood up, jamming his hands onto his hips and shaking his head. ‘Girl,’ he said, ‘you sure is something of a charmer. You think that’s enough to stop me shootin’ you in the back of your head, an’ dumpin’ you out back?’

  ‘No … but you don’t have a gun on you. That might,’ I said.

  Inside, the place was still as a saucer of milk. Red closed the door behind us and led the way, glancing back at me over his shoulder. I had a bag of groceries and Red, the gentleman he was, didn’t offer to carry them for me. Our feet barely made a sound on the tiled floor of the hallway – his bare and mine in soft, slip-on shoes.

  ‘Your Daddy home?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope.’ He opened a door which led into a kitchen, with a high vaulted ceiling, squat black range and wide, white walls hung about with copper cookware. Only the microwave oven looked as if it were well used. ‘Daddy was not best pleased, seein’ his only
son limpin’ home with them bracelets on and no money. He’s taken himself off to the capital, fundraising or some such prior engagement …’ He waved his hand.

  It was a well-appointed kitchen, its long wall open to a sun-drenched conservatory curling with vines. It was the sort of place that needed a large family, couple of dogs, people calling in and taking tea, children’s bare feet running in from the garden, something to show you, something to share. Sisters, perhaps, on an adventure?

  ‘D’you mind if I take off my shoes?’ I put the bag on the counter.

  ‘Feet still botherin’ you?’

  ‘A little.’ Bound in gauze as they were, the stone floor felt good under them.

  ‘What you here for?’ he said. He pulled out a high stool from the counter behind me but did not sit on it.

  ‘To ask for help. You got a mixing bowl?’

  ‘Darlin’, you didn’t need to put a gun to my head if that’s all you wanted. Cupboard on your right.’

  I glanced down. ‘This one?’ He came over. I ducked down and opened the cupboard. ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure, darlin’.’ I straightened up with the bowl in one hand, the other, with its bruises and pink nails, resting on the counter’s edge. He reached round me and put his hand over mine. I looked down, watched as his thumb caressed my knuckles, then his strong, brown fingers closed round my wrist. The skin on my arm came alive under his touch, prickled as his fingertips grazed the inside of my elbow. He smelled good, like all the men your mother warned you about, like trouble, and that time when you should have known better. I could feel the warmth of him on my back, the inch of air between us barely there.

  ‘Just how you fixin’ on apologizing?’ he said, mouth close to my ear. And I thought about it, for a good, long, hard second. Then I bit my lip and turned to face him.

  ‘Oh please, Red, seriously? What sort of lame-ass novels d’you read? You think I’m gonna sleep with you to get your help?’ I pulled my arm back and stepped away from him. ‘Good God, you still wanna fuck? After I stuck your leg an’ all … that really did it for you?’