‘Why Garland?’
‘It’s just a word.’
‘Is it your name?’ He’d never told me. I only ever knew him as Dylan.
‘No.’
‘Can I use the phone to ring you?’
‘No.’
‘What if there’s an emergency?’
‘There won’t be an emergency. Nothing is going to happen. You just need to put the parcel somewhere safe, keep the phone charged up, and then in a couple of months I’ll call you on that number and arrange to come and collect it. Yeah?’
‘Alright.’
The feeling crept up on me before I realised what it was. I wasn’t going to see him any more. It was going to be that one call, that one meeting to hand over the parcel, and that would be it. Somehow I’d just assumed that we would always be friends. The thought of not seeing him was making me feel uncomfortable – no, more than that. Desolate.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
I had no reason not to tell him the truth. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ I said.
Dylan laughed at that and it hurt me. Maybe I was just tired, maybe it had just been a traumatic couple of weeks, but the tears were falling down my cheeks before I realised, and I rubbed them away crossly with my sleeve.
‘It’s not funny,’ I said quietly.
‘You won’t miss me, Genevieve. I’ll be lucky if you remember where you’ve left the phone after a couple of hours.’
‘That’s not fair. You’re always taking the piss, Dylan.’
He sighed as though I was just some troublesome female he was going to have to deal with, picked up the carrier bag and put it on the floor by his feet, making space on the sofa next to him. ‘Come and sit here,’ he said, and his voice was softer, almost gentle.
When I got to my feet and sank on to the cushions next to him he put his arm around my back, awkwardly patting my shoulder. I moved closer to him, against him, feeling his bulk, instantly comforted by him. It reminded me of the moment he’d held me after he’d got rid of Leon Arnold. Whatever had been wrong had disappeared and everything was alright again.
We stayed like that for a long time and I relaxed into him. His hand, his huge hand which had been patting me on the shoulder like an inexperienced father trying to wind a new baby, had changed pace and was stroking my upper arm, slowly. And then it was just the tips of his fingers, running from my shoulder to my elbow, and back again.
At last he said, ‘We should go.’
I pushed myself up off the sofa and away from him and he brought the bag and walked with me out of the main entrance and across the car park to my van. I unlocked it and opened the door for him to put the bag inside, on the passenger seat, but he didn’t move. I turned to face him, about to say, What are you waiting for? but the words died in my throat because of the way he was looking at me. He placed the carrier bag carefully at his feet, and without taking his eyes off me pushed the door of the van shut, not with force but with a kind of purpose. He moved forward and with no other warning kissed me, one hand around my back, pulling me against him, the other cradling my neck, his thumb on my jawline.
It was as though I’d been waiting for it, waiting for the longest time without realising, and now it was finally happening my legs were giving way under me and he pushed me gently back against the side of the van to prop me up.
When he finally moved away I couldn’t see his face in the darkness but I heard his voice, the emotion in it. He said, ‘You want to stay?’
I nodded. I wasn’t even sure what he meant, then, but I did want to stay if the alternative was going to the boat on my own, or going anywhere that wasn’t with him.
We walked back to the hotel and I waited by the lifts while Dylan went to the reception to see if he could get a room for us. All I could think was that I needed a shower: I’d been lugging boxes and furniture around all day and I felt filthy. But not tired any more – I was energised by that kiss, breathing from the very top of my lungs, fizzing with anticipation.
We went upstairs and along a corridor that went on and on, me following Dylan who was carrying that stupid bag which looked heavier by the minute and was probably full of cocaine.
He was walking fast and I struggled to keep up with him, until he stopped abruptly and I almost ran into the back of him. He opened the door to a room and we went inside; he dropped the bag on the floor, pushed it with the toe of his boot into the bottom of the open wardrobe, and closed the door with the other hand, putting on the security chain.
I was already taking my clothes off, my top tangled around my arms, trying to kick my boots off without undoing the laces, jeans around my knees; anyone would think I had no idea how to take my kit off in an erotic and beguiling fashion.
‘I need a shower, I’m sorry,’ I said, my voice muffled by fabric as I felt his mouth on my skin, his tongue on my naked stomach.
‘Like I care,’ he said.
That was all he said.
I was made breathless by how much I wanted him. His physique was powerful, the tailored suits he wore hiding the tattoos that covered his left arm and both shoulders: a black dragon snaking around and across the back of his neck; a tribal pattern, a sun, all black ink, intricate and lovely on his nocturnal skin. And how pale my fingers looked, gripping the inked skin of his shoulder.
It was the way he looked at me, so differently from the way he’d looked at me before, in the Barclay. It was as though he’d opened his eyes and was seeing me for the first time. And I’d been waiting, waiting unknowing for him to look at me in exactly that way. Why hadn’t I realised it before? Why hadn’t I seen him as he really was, this beautiful quiet man who looked out for me? His body fitted against mine seamlessly; everything he did was at the right moment, just the right pace, just the right pressure. I loved how he tried so hard to make everything perfect and slow and sensual, and then, the way he lost control.
And hours, hours later… we’d fucked and showered and had a drink from the minibar and fucked all over again; I was so tired my body felt as though it was separate from me… it was starting to get light and I was lying stretched against him, fingers threaded through his. He was so quiet and still, I thought he was asleep.
I couldn’t stop smiling. It felt as though my life had lurched back on to the right track; as if everything that had been wrong was suddenly, magically right. I would live on the boat, and during the week, when the club was quiet, Dylan could come and visit me. He could help me with the renovations, and if he didn’t want to do that we would get quietly drunk together sitting on the deck of my boat, watching the sun go down, and then go down into my cabin and make love for hours and hours. Maybe in a few months’ time he would give up working in London and move down to be with me on the boat…
‘This was a bad idea,’ he said.
The sound of his voice after hours without speaking almost made me jump. ‘Don’t say that,’ I whispered.
He kissed the back of my neck slowly and ran his hand from my thigh over my hip to my waist to my back and my shoulder and my face and I turned my head to look at him again, and he kissed me.
‘You could come and visit me,’ I said, hopefully, but even before I’d finished the sentence he was shaking his head.
‘That’s exactly what I meant when I said it was a bad idea,’ he said.
‘But why, Dylan?’ I said, my voice hoarse.
‘Because of the package,’ he said.
‘So give it to someone else!’
He pushed me away and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m just trying to keep you safe,’ he said.
‘Safe from what?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer.
‘You’re getting me involved in your dodgy deal, whatever it is, asking me to hide stuff for you. How’s that going to keep me safe?’
‘It’s not what you think,’ he said.
‘You’re ripping off Fitz? Is that what this is about?’
He stood up and started to find his clothes where they were sc
attered and I wished I’d kept my big mouth shut so I could hold on to him for a few moments longer. The pain I’d felt last night at the thought of leaving him was back, but it was worse now, much worse, because of what we’d done. He was probably right. It had been a bad idea. I could feel the anger coming off him like a scent, fizzing like an electric charge.
I tried again. ‘I’ll be safe wherever you are,’ I said.
‘No, you won’t.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said miserably, sitting up in bed.
He already had his trousers on. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand. You don’t understand any of it. Remember when you let that bloke touch you while you were dancing, at Fitz’s house, and I was pissed off with you afterwards? You didn’t understand about that, either, did you?’
He was looking at me with so much hurt in his eyes, as though I was wounding him still, just by sitting there, just by existing.
‘You made me watch,’ he said. ‘You said you’d do it on condition that I was there. You made me stand there and watch you.’
I think my mouth dropped open with surprise. ‘I did that because I thought you were my friend,’ I said. ‘I thought you’d look out for me.’
‘I had to stand there and watch him with his fingers inside you,’ he said.
‘You were looking at me as if I was a piece of furniture.’
‘I had no choice. If Fitz had had any idea how I felt about you he would have had my bollocks for it.’
‘He said you liked me, so it seems he knew anyway.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And now look at us. Fitz doesn’t trust me any more, Genevieve, because he knows how I feel about you. It makes me a liability as far as he’s concerned, especially now you’ve left. He’s going to be watching me like a hawk. And I need him to trust me.’
‘You never told me how you felt. How was I supposed to know?’
‘I need to work at sorting things out with Fitz,’ he said, ‘and you need to forget this happened, right?’
‘Dylan!’
He was tying his shoelaces, his boots resting on the edge of the bed. Ten minutes ago we had been lying here naked, locked together as if we would never be able to be apart. How could we go from such bliss to conflict in such a short space of time?
When he was dressed I thought he was just going to go, to walk out without so much as casting a glance back at me, but he came back to the bed and took me in his arms and held me against him fiercely. I was crying by then. I tried to touch him, to kiss him, but he was holding me too tightly to move.
‘Keep yourself safe,’ he said. ‘Be careful who you trust. Right?’
I nodded, sniffing, my face buried in his shirt.
‘It might be okay. In a few months, if it works out. If you can wait that long. Alright?’
‘I can wait,’ I said.
He pulled back and wiped my tears away with his thumb. ‘Just keep safe,’ he said. ‘Hide that package somewhere. Be safe. And I’ll come and find you.’
Then he left me. He grabbed his jacket and he was gone.
Later, when I had showered again and dressed, I looked in the bag and saw what it contained. A rectangular parcel, wrapped in a heavy-duty grey plastic bag and bound tightly and neatly with black gaffer tape. A small black mobile phone, new, and a charger. And two thick bundles of fifty pound notes. I’d never seen so much cash in my life, but even so I stared at it with no emotion.
In the space of a few hours he’d gone from being a mate, a friend, someone I was doing a favour for, to breaking my heart by leaving me behind.
Thirty-two
I had almost got as far as the town centre when the rain started – big, heavy drops that threatened to soak me. I made a dash across the pedestrian crossing near the bus station and nearly ran into the back of a silver car that had stopped right in front of me. I went to pass it and the driver’s window slid down.
‘Genevieve!’
It was Jim. He looked as though he’d had a busy day already: tired eyes, sleeves folded back to his forearms, tie loosened.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Thought you might need a lift.’
‘No, thanks.’
I stood in the rain, staring at him. A car behind him tooted, making me jump.
I got in the car. It was warm, and almost as soon as I was inside the car started to mist up. He switched on the fan heater. I was already starting to shiver, my hair dripping. I wasn’t angry at him, not really. He had a job to do the same as everyone else. I’d forgotten that police were never off duty and so nothing you told them that was of any interest or relevance would ever be classed as private.
We sat in the car staring at the stationary traffic waiting to go through the one-way system, the windscreen wipers scraping noisily back and forth across the rain-spattered screen. The multi-storey car park looked as if it was sagging under the weight of its own ugliness. I bit my lip, my shoulders rigid, resolutely looking out of the window at the rain.
‘Everything alright?’
I didn’t answer. What possible answer was there?
‘Genevieve,’ he said, ‘I had to tell them. You know that.’
‘Did you tell them you slept with me?’ I said with venom. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Funny the bit you left out.’
I glanced across at him. His cheeks were pink. ‘There are good reasons why I can’t tell them that. Reasons that have nothing to do with you.’
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
There was an awkward silence, broken only by the noise of the rain, the wipers squealing across the windscreen.
‘Did they tell you what I said to them?’ I asked, at last.
Carling shook his head. ‘It’s their investigation now. Nothing to do with me.’
‘Why?’
‘Caddy Smith was from London, so she’s their victim. It’s complicated. You’re the only thing linking her to Kent, so they’ve come down here to tick you off their list.’
‘Oh. You know, I thought they were going to arrest me.’
‘They probably would have done, a couple of days ago. But they’ve got two people in custody, and they’ve just charged them, which makes things a bit different. It’s about evidence-gathering now.’
‘They’ve got people in custody?’ I asked. ‘Who?’
He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t know, but what he meant was, he couldn’t tell me. For a horrible moment I wondered if they’d arrested Dylan. Maybe that was why he wasn’t answering his phone – maybe he was in some grotty London police station, locked in a cell.
‘So what did you say to them?’ he asked.
‘They wanted to know how I knew her. I told them I met her when I was living in London. I worked at weekends at a club – the Barclay. Caddy worked there too. That’s about it.’
‘I know the Barclay.’
‘Do you?’
‘Were you a dancer?’
I looked at him sharply but his eyes were on the road. ‘Have you ever been there?’ I asked. ‘To the Barclay, I mean.’
He shook his head. ‘No, some of my mates went for a stag do and I heard all about it. I couldn’t afford it, at the time. Bastards went without me.’
I hesitated and then said, ‘Yes, I was a dancer. That’s how I managed to buy the boat.’
‘You have a dancer’s body,’ he said.
‘I haven’t done it for a long time,’ I said.
The line of traffic was creeping forward, metre by metre.
‘Look, I can walk if it’s easier,’ I said. ‘We might be stuck here for ages.’
‘Chatham town centre,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty much guaranteed we’ll be stuck here for ages. It’s not even as if there’s any real traffic, it’s just the bloody lights slowing us down. There must be ten sets of lights along this one stupid stretch of road, all timed wrong so it just brings everything to a standstill. I mean, what sort of arses think that changing a town designed entirely around a one-way traf
fic system into a two-way system is a good idea?’
I thought for a moment that he’d finished and I nodded in agreement, but he was only pausing to get his breath.
‘You hope that when the government starts cutting costs the people making these sorts of stupid decisions will be the ones to go, but no, there’s always enough money to keep a bunch of retarded planners employed so that they can deploy their million traffic cones for a short stretch of roadworks… And even if they do ever finish it, it’s still Chatham so no bugger is going to want to come here anyway, not unless they live somewhere with a severe shortage of pound shops.’
‘Finished?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was coming this way anyway, to be honest, despite the bloody roadworks. And besides, I wanted to see you again.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I do like you, Jim. But it’s no good us pretending that this is going to work.’ ‘Whoa,’ he said, at the sudden change of tone.
‘You can’t get involved with me when they still aren’t sure if I’m a suspect or not.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘And afterwards, well…’
‘Well?’
‘By then you might have met a nice girl, or changed your mind about me, or… well, anything could happen. I’m just saying.’
‘You’ve got someone else,’ he said. As though there could be no other possible explanation for my rejection of him.
‘No. I just – there was someone, but I haven’t seen him for months, since I moved here. I don’t even know if he still thinks about me.’
‘What’s his name?’
I pretended I hadn’t heard his question, looking out of the window at the dirty, rainy streets. I couldn’t believe it was so dark in the middle of the afternoon. The pavements were full of Saturday shoppers, umbrellas, grey coats and soaking trackie bottoms clinging to wet legs.
‘What was she like?’ Carling asked.
‘Who?’
‘Caddy.’
I didn’t answer at first, wondering how I could do her justice in just a few words. I thought back to some of the good nights we’d had, dancing and working, yes, but having as much fun as if we were on a girls’ night out at the same time. I pictured her laughing, doubled over, because one of the Russian girls was trying to chat up some lad from Streatham who thought she was from Scotland. Patting tears out of the corners of her eyes and flapping her hand in front of her face to give herself some air.
Revenge of the Tide Page 25
