He was done with the raddled holidaymakers. He nodded briskly to Lisa. She moved forward, past the yellow line, trying to smile.
He flicked through her passport, looking at her.
‘You OK?’
She was white-faced; she could see it in his eyes, assessing her. She shrugged, trying to explain her pallor. ‘I’m just tired, and I hate that sound. Why can’t she just give him a bottle?’
He nodded, snapping her passport shut. ‘Exactly. Baggage claim that way.’
Christ! She was through! A rush of blood flooded to her head, and she realised she was blushing. Quick, get out, before he sees . . .
‘Thank you,’ she said, and moved off where the agent pointed.
Customs - the last throw of the dice. Her luck could not hold, surely. There was a bureau de change inside baggage reclaim, but Lisa simply could not wait another second. She had no luggage. She rushed through the green channel, her heart in her mouth; but nobody came forward to challenge her, and now she was through to the arrivals hall.
It was beyond glossy. Stores for luxury goods were everywhere. Coach luggage, Hermès scarves and bags, a Gucci, a Chanel. The scent of freshly brewed coffee around the cafes. Moneyed Asian businessmen and women in chic little skirt suits. This airport was clinical, beautiful. There were long people-carrying motorised walkways everywhere. Enough space to cope even with the teeming airport crowds. For a second, Lisa was paralysed. The money, the brand names - it was almost like being back home, before the nightmare started, bored, shopping on Rodeo Drive . . .
But she wasn’t home. And she wasn’t a rich Hollywood wife, not any more. She was a fugitive on the run. For murder. In a public place that was doubtless crawling with cops and security cameras.
Think, she told herself amidst the waves of relief. They could call the alert in any minute. You’re not through yet. You can’t walk out of here, not unless you want to get mugged.
She needed a cab, and that took money. Local money. There was another bureau de change right in the corner, next to a Starbucks. Go - don’t think about it, she told herself. The more you dwell on this, the more shifty you’ll look.
She made herself march up to the window.
‘I’ll change this for dollars, please,’ she stammered. Her voice was quavering now; she was so close.
‘You OK, miss?’ The teller was looking at her curiously, his head tilted on one side like a bird’s.
‘Some trouble with my husband,’ Lisa said, and a small, hysterical laugh escaped her. It was true, wasn’t it? Her nerves shifted to anger; this man was the last thing between her and safety. Or at least less danger. ‘Please, just give me the money.’
He sighed at her rudeness but busied himself in the till.
She changed the rest of the baht. That gave her four hundred Hong Kong dollars, and as soon as the notes were in her hands, her legs trembling, she started to run. She fled out of the pristine, glossy airport into the muggy heat of the day, looking for a car, for a way out.
It was no good. She had no discipline left. She ignored the stares of the passengers and baggage handlers. There were a lot of people lining up for the official cabs - plenty of vehicles, but she could not join another queue. A shady-looking guy asked if she wanted a car - he was a rip-off merchant, the kind the terminus signs implored you to ignore. Lisa had never been so glad to see anybody in her life.
‘OK. Yes, cab.’ She nodded and he beckoned her to follow, off the arrivals platform, round a corner, and there it was, his beat-up vehicle with a hubcap missing. He jumped in front and she slammed the door; old leather seats that had been slashed in several places, the reek of sweat and smoke, a plastic Buddha on the dashboard.
It was perfect.
‘Where going?’ he asked.
Good question. Where was she going? With Josh, it had been the most luxurious hotels, the exclusive members’ clubs. She would not go to those again in a long time, maybe ever. She was incapable of thinking that far ahead. She would go to her friend Alice’s house, when, if, she remembered her address.
She was looking for anonymous and safe.
‘You know a hotel, very cheap?’ she asked, summoning up a smile. ‘I don’t have too much money.’
He shrugged. ‘You can go to youth hostel. Christian for girls on Kowloon. Cheap.’
Christian for girls. YWCA? Sounded good right now. Sounded real good.
‘Yes please,’ she said. ‘I’m tired, I need to sleep.’
He wasn’t listening. He pulled into the stream of traffic, and now they were away from the airport and Lisa had done it, she had gotten away from the blood and the police and the death, at least for a few moments, a few hours.
The tension and fear overcame her, and she put a hand over her eyes to shield her face while she wept.
He dropped her off by the City Road market, in the East Kowloon corridor. It was a total contrast to the pristine airport; this was hot, humid, the fetid-sweet smell of food and human sweat hitting her as soon as she stepped out of the car. The market was located under the pillars of a road bridge. Red awnings from tatty shops leaned over to cover the temporary stalls, their wares lit up by gaudy coloured paper lanterns.
Shops, not tourist ones, crammed along the sidewalk. Little groceries and pharmacies, signs in Chinese script. There were narrow apartment buildings with signs done up in peeling paint. This was a cheap area, crowded and a little desperate. But the sign for the YWCA was clear, and Lisa didn’t object; it was teeming with humanity, and a backpacker with no money would fit right in. She took a deep breath and walked up to the front door.
The hostel was cramped and overbooked, exactly what she’d expected. The desk clerk, a rail-thin older Chinese woman, looked at her without interest.
‘Sorry. Hotel full.’
Hotel? That was a stretch. Lisa forced a smile.
‘I understand, ma’am. I’m just really tired, got in from the airport. Maybe there’s an extra bed in one of the dorms?’
‘No bed. Full.’
‘If you could check, I’d really appreciate that. Obviously I’d pay extra. For your trouble.’ Lisa slid twenty dollars across the counter. The woman shrugged, but she took the twenty.
‘OK, you wait.’
She marched up the back stairs. Lisa glanced around. There was no kind of security here, but the place did look clean, at least from the inside. There was a reassuring chemical smell of disinfectant. She didn’t think she could deal with bugs crawling on her face in the night, not now.
The woman came back to the counter. ‘One bed in shared dormitory, extra charge, thirty dollars the night.’
‘Oh, that’s great.’ She was being ripped off twice, but she didn’t care. She handed over the money, trying to ignore the anxiety she felt. It was so strange, worrying about cash again after all these years. How would she ever get more? But getting away was more important. ‘Thank you.’
‘Follow me.’ The receptionist led her upstairs to the dorm.
It wasn’t safe; open plan, like an English boarding school. Anybody could come up while she was sleeping and steal her money. But it was what there was, and it would have to do. Her bed was jammed next to a grimy window. At least on one side she was protected by a wall.
Once she was sitting on the allocated bed, and the receptionist had left her alone, Lisa tried to clear her head. They had not caught on to the stolen passport, but they would soon, and they would know she was in Hong Kong. And they would come looking for her.
The nausea was still oppressive. There was no urgency right now, no need to act happy and healthy to fool cops or flight attendants. Lisa rushed to the bathroom, locked the door of the stall, and crumpled to her knees, puking again until her stomach was empty. None of the other girls asked if she was OK. They all had their own problems; nobody cared.
It was perfect.
She ran her tongue around her dehydrated mouth, trying to talk herself out of a panic. There was no use giving in, going back to her bed and s
obbing her heart out. They could easily get her here, in a city with thousands of cops and Chinese security agents. How long could she stay in Hong Kong? Where was there to go? It was small, and she was Western and didn’t know a word of Chinese; and soon her face would be truly famous, not society-column famous. She’d be on every TV screen in the city. And of course Miriam Steen and her godless bastard family would put up a reward. She’s in Hong Kong, they’d say, and you have to find her and you’ll win a million dollars. Hunting Lisa would become a spectator sport.
Her breath caught in her throat; she was terribly frightened. The relief of getting out of the airport evaporated. As it stood, she’d bought herself just a couple more hours.
Think, Lisa, think, dammit, she told herself. OK. OK. She had to get out of Hong Kong. Get to somewhere they did not have the death penalty. Like Europe, or Canada. Somewhere they’d never extradite her.
Life in a godforsaken jail was bitter enough, but from where she was sitting, it sounded like a good option. Through all the fear and depression, and the loss and the panic, she held tight to that one thing: she did not want to die. She had enough hope, enough love of her life, to want to keep it, to fight this, fight what an alcoholic blackout had made her do.
So fight. They were looking for Lisa Costello, blonde society butterfly. She opened the door of the stall and ran a little water in the sink, splashing it on her face. Her hair was buttercup yellow with platinum highlights, applied at seven hundred dollars a time by one of the best colourists in Beverly Hills. Her nails were long and scarlet, like Josh preferred. She could do something about that, maybe. They would identify what had gone from the closet, so the clothes had to go. Anyway, she needed to shop. She had nothing with her, not even toothpaste and mouthwash to clean her mouth after the vomit. Yes; there were things she could still do.
Lisa left the bathroom and went out of the hall, until she landed on the street. Shops and storefronts were everywhere. She walked north, randomly, looking for a chemist. OK, there was one on the corner, CVS Pharmacy, just like in America. The air was humid and muggy, and a sea of humanity thronged every inch of the pavement. Fighting her way through the crowds, Lisa felt like she was swimming, swimming through bodies. She’d forgotten how much she hated it here; too much neon, too many people, stinking air, that dreadful feeling of rush and pressure. Josh had mainlined on the adrenaline. Lisa thought Hong Kong made Manhattan look like a Somerset village. It was too much for her, and now she was trapped here.
Being in the store gave her some momentary relief. Yes, most of what she needed you could buy. She hurriedly chose some hair dye, scissors and fake tan; her skin was exceptionally pale, Josh had liked her to stay out of the sun and wear block; that English rose look, he called it. There were travel-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner, cute little deodorants; she tried to shop slowly enough to think: what was the well-dressed fugitive wearing these days?
A hysterical giggle bubbled up, but she suppressed it. Tweezers - stop herself growing a moustache or a unibrow; razors; they even sold multipacks of underwear and soft cotton bras. She went and paid for everything. A side door led into a small shopping mall. Thank you, God, Lisa thought. There were cheap, nasty-looking clothes stores, food stalls, toyshops, souvenir tat peddlers - everything you’d need for the non-discerning traveller on a budget. Gratefully, she purchased a cheap nylon holdall, several T-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans and socks; what you might wear if you were a backpacker on holiday, a skeleton wardrobe she could wear, wash and change.
Now all she needed was to change back, to move away from what Josh Steen had wanted her to be. He’d turned a moth into a butterfly; now she had to become a moth again.
Back in the hostel, Lisa waited to get in the shared shower while a drunk student freshened up. She’d chosen cheap dye, the kind that worked in ten minutes; as it sat on her head she shaved her leg and armpit stubble, tidied her brows and cut her nails. When that was done, she sluiced off and then covered her body with fake tan, slathering it all over herself, rubbing it hard into the skin. At least she could be a sun-baked, brunette backpacker instead of a pale, blonde trophy wife . . .
Lisa paused suddenly, her hands kneading her slim flesh. Something was wrong, something was nagging at her consciousness. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was, but her subconscious was insisting, this isn’t right, look, it’s not right . . .
She got it, suddenly, with almost a gasp. Her skin . . . her carefully maintained, pale English skin. It was white as mother-of-pearl, shot through with pink. It was scrubbed and smooth.
It was perfect.
What it was not was bruised.
She stopped at once, her palms pausing mid-stroke. There was no mirror in this dingy little room, but she twisted in the shower cubicle, examining herself under the ugly fluorescent light. No. Nothing. No marks on her collarbone or around her throat. Nothing on her ribcage, where Josh might have grabbed her. She stared at her upper arms; surely he would have shaken her there, grabbed at her; but there was no mark on her body, however slight, however small. She’d already covered her legs with the tan cream, but it took a while to develop; through the white layer on her skin she couldn’t see anything wrong. Even if she’d missed it, she thought with rising excitement, would he have grabbed her there?
How could she have killed him?
Josh was older than her, but he was still in his prime; he worked out; his horribly wounded chest, when she’d stared at it, terrified, in their bed, had been muscular enough. He would have fought her, hit her back. How could she have killed him?
Don’t be stupid, she told herself. You killed him. You woke up next to him and you had the knife in your hand.
So what had happened then? He’d fallen asleep, OK, and she had been awake and slit his throat . . .
The wound was awkward, though, not clean. Why would she have done that and then stabbed him again, over and over?
Who knows why you did it? You just did it. If you weren’t such a stupid, drunk idiot, maybe you could remember why, said the accusatory voice inside her head. At least stay out of sight until any bruises would have faded, then you can say you had them once and it was self-defence. Because if they see you like this, without a scratch . . .
Hold on, though. Hold on just a second. The brutal pain in her head was only just starting to subside. Yeah, OK, she’d seen what Josh had done, and she’d been angry and got drunk, ready to make a scene, ready to do her worst to him. But ‘do her worst’ had meant embarrassing him, not stabbing him to death with a gold and ivory antique dagger in the middle of their honeymoon bed. Was she that drunk? How could she have been that drunk?
She was starting to feel something she hadn’t felt since she woke up. Hope - a tiny sliver of it. What if she hadn’t done this?
Come on, Lisa, you’re an intelligent girl, she commanded herself. Work it through. Work it out.
She tallied up what she did remember. The handsome, weary, American journalist, talking too much, smoking again. Two glasses of champagne and then Josh and Melissa, and that had turned into a double Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke, then another, and lastly a Napoleon brandy right in front of his mother and the goddamn prince, and then it turned into a screaming match and they were storming upstairs, she’d thought to finish it, right in the honeymoon suite . . .
And then it was black.
So that was a lot to drink. But not enough for this pain, not enough for a blackout. She must have had lots more. But . . .
Lisa sensed her excitement rise as the questions poured into her brain. She must have had more to drink, OK. But where did she get it from? Not Josh; he’d been pleading and begging with her not to make a scene, then yelling at her, cursing her for being a tramp and a drunk, even though he was the one who cheated. He wouldn’t have given her more. There was no minibar in the suite. He said he hated alcohol, and hated women who drank alcohol. Would she have ordered room service? He would never have allowed that. He’d have told the hotel not to b
ring anything, and he was the guy paying the bill.
So could she have left the room and returned later? But she did not remember that. If she was so drunk, how would she have walked there? For that matter, if she was pass-out drunk, how could she have wielded the knife and killed Josh before he could lay a finger on her? How could she have killed her healthy, strong, sober husband?
Impossible - impossible, Lisa thought, elated. She hadn’t killed Josh. She hadn’t! She’d been drunk - maybe somebody had drugged her. Perhaps that was why this hangover was so bad.
But somebody out there did murder Josh Steen. And tried to frame her. Everybody hated her, everybody. She’d be an easy target, wouldn’t she? The media would love it, the police would have a nice neat case all wrapped up, some district attorney would make his reputation. Who the hell would believe her - especially after she’d run?
But Lisa knew there’d been no choice. Run or die. Those were her two options. And she’d chosen to run.
Her new hope made her bold. She wanted out now even more desperately. Maybe dyeing her hair wasn’t enough. She needed to change her look as much as possible. Vanity could not be allowed to trap her.
Back in the dormitory, a cotton towel wrapped around her head, Lisa reached for the scissors she’d bought. Then she returned to the bathroom, and pulling off the thin, white cloth, hacked off all her hair, all her gorgeous, thick, tumbling hair. God, it had taken her ten years to grow it that long, and Josh had spent a fortune on it once he’d found her.
He’d be furious to see her getting rid of it all. Any other day she’d be traumatised. This afternoon, she couldn’t give a monkey’s.
She scooped up all the hair in both hands, poured water on it to make it stick together, then wrapped it in loo roll and flushed it away.
Then she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. So they weren’t going to offer her a gig as a top stylist at Vidal Sassoon. But it wasn’t all bad. She was now tanned and glowing, and the rough cut of the scissors had given her a young, punkish look. Better for a backpacker anyway. It wasn’t plastic surgery, but she wasn’t immediately obvious as Lisa. A large pair of sunglasses, and she thought she might pass through some of Josh’s friends’ houses and not be looked at twice.
Desire Page 5
