The Debt Page 9

  The silence that followed was absolute. It took me a second to grasp the inference; God, was he claiming that . . . but there wasn’t any time for further speculation. Dee suddenly slammed her glass down. It smashed against a plate and shattered, the fragments falling amongst the sprouts and gravy. Like tiny jewels they glistened in the candlelight. Then in one fast jerky movement she scraped back her chair, stood up, and stormed out of the room.

  For a few seconds no one spoke. No one moved. Then Carl turned, grinning, to his father and said: ‘You happy now?’

  I watched Jim rise carefully from his chair, his face puffed and scarlet. Unsteady on his feet he lurched and tipped forward, grasping the edge of the table for support, before finally finding the strength to straighten up. From the corner of his mouth a bead of spittle escaped and dribbled down his chin. A noise, something guttural, more animal than human, emanated from his throat. He swayed a little, glaring down at his son. There was no doubt of what he’d like to do – his intention was clear enough for Carl to flinch and shift back out of reach – but from some distant quarter of his drunken brain he managed to dredge up enough restraint to turn his back and walk away.

  Carl courageously waited until he was clear of the room before sweeping aside his plate. ‘Fucking bastard.’ Then appealing to Johnny Frank and Melanie, he said: ‘You see what he’s like? You see what the fucker’s like?’ He didn’t bother addressing me. There was no point scattering grain on stony ground.

  ‘Don’t get upset, honey,’ Melanie replied. As if she’d been blind and deaf to everything that had preceded, she lifted her baby blue eyes and naively insisted: ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘You see what he’s like?’ he repeated, with all the imagination of the tedious drunk. This time his attention was entirely concentrated on Johnny. Having harvested one fruitful response, he was eager for the next.

  But Johnny’s grey eyes were impassive, only his brows lifting a fraction. He was either in a state of shock or utterly indifferent. With the light from the candles throwing dark shadows across his face any subtler indications of his emotions, if indeed there were any, remained shrouded. But eventually he sighed and said softly: ‘Perhaps you should see how your mother is.’

  In his current frame of mind, I was certain Carl would blow a fuse but surprisingly he smiled and, as if God had spoken, replied respectfully: ‘Yeah, I’m sorry, mate. You’re right.’ He gently pushed back his chair, stood up, and as docile as a lamb gambolled off in search of Dee.

  Watching open-mouthed, I heard Melanie ask: ‘Do you think I should follow him?’

  No, I would have replied, but as I glanced back I was faintly aware of Johnny giving a slight, almost imperceptible, nod of his head. Before I could voice an opinion she had slipped from her seat and disappeared through the door.

  And then there were two.

  The combatants have scattered and all that remains is the distant sound of their angry footsteps. Johnny has removed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and for the last thirty minutes we’ve been clearing the table, sweeping up the broken glass, and washing and drying the dishes. Unsure of what may or may not be dishwasher-proof – and unwilling to take the risk of increasing Dee’s unhappiness – we’ve reverted to the old-fashioned method of cleaning everything by hand. Although I’m still less than comfortable in his company there is at least the consolation that he’s very nicely house-trained and, as circumstances have forced us together, I decide to take the opportunity to do a little probing.

  ‘You must be starting to wonder why you came here,’ I say with all the subtlety of a Grand Inquisitor. ‘It’s not exactly peaceful, is it?’

  Refusing to be drawn, he shrugs while he carefully wipes down the draining board. ‘I’ve been worse places,’ he replies. Which is unarguably true.

  ‘They’re not always this bad but then I don’t need to tell you that. You’ve known them for a lot longer than me. You must have been close friends back then. I mean, I’m sure you still are but it must have been a pretty special friendship for you to want to stay here when you . . .’ I let the sentence peter out, my avid curiosity dampened by a sudden spring of tact. This resurgence of good manners is less to do with any sensitivity as regards his emotions than with the possibility of scuppering my own investigation; in what must be his first free Christmas Day in a considerable number of years, it’s hardly diplomatic – or endearing – to remind him of the past.

  But surprisingly he smiles, folds his arms across his chest, and says: ‘When I came out of jail? It’s okay, you’re allowed to mention it. I promise not to faint.’ A red and white striped tea towel hangs from his hand. ‘And please don’t worry about hurting my feelings – I really don’t have any.’

  I force a laugh, unsure as to the seriousness of this statement. Although I can readily believe it for there’s a cold efficiency about everything Johnny does, a lack of warmth that may be integral to his nature or perhaps simply a result of where he has been for the best part of the last two decades. Either way, I think it wise not to loiter on the subject and embark instead on a ramble about Christmas past.

  ‘Still, I suppose it’s an improvement on last year. We didn’t even make it to dinner then; not a single sprout passed our lips. Carl had an unholy row with Gena – that’s his wife, well ex-wife, almost – and World War Three broke out. Now that was a fight, a real battle and a half, there wasn’t exactly blood on the walls but . . .’ Turning away, I lift the plates off the table and start to stack them in the cupboards. ‘We were eating cold turkey for the rest of the week.’

  What I don’t mention (can’t mention) is how I fled upstairs and, desperate for some fresh air, opened a window and leaned out. Looking down, I saw them standing together on the grass. At first I thought they were making up, his arms wound tightly around her body, the two of them entwined against the hedge. It was only as I started to squeeze my way back through the window that I heard a sound more fearful than amorous and saw his palm move swiftly over her mouth.

  His other hand lingered by her bare shoulder and in the dim light I recognized the tiny, brilliant gleam of a cigarette. It was over before I could react, an act of vicious malice perpetrated with speed and purpose. Her scream was stifled by his hand, mine by the shock of what I had witnessed. And then suddenly she had struggled free and was gone, running down the drive towards the car. He watched her for a moment and then went inside, whistling softly.

  ‘Simone? Simone?’

  I come back to the present to find my hands poised mid-air, still holding a pile of plates, and Johnny staring intently at me. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur, ‘I was just . . .’ Quickly, I shake my head, trying to chase the image from my mind.

  ‘You look like you saw a ghost.’

  ‘Something like that.’ Feeling flustered, I shove the plates in the cupboard and search around for another job but everything is spick and span, all the surfaces shining and all the crockery, cutlery, pans and glasses in their rightful place.

  ‘What you need is some fresh air,’ he insists. ‘Come on, let’s take a walk.’

  ‘No, really, I’m . . .’

  But before I can finish the objection he’s opened the back door, passed me a raincoat from the porch, and ushered me outside. I wonder if anyone ever argues with him. I imagine he was the type of villain who never had to ask twice – or even think about raising his voice. He has a quiet air of authority that borders on the menacing.

  Of course there are people I would far rather take an evening stroll with than a convicted killer but beggars can’t be choosers and, after the claustrophobia of the house, it’s a relief simply to be in the open space of the garden. Dusk has fallen and soon it will be dark. The last of the light filters greyly through the naked branches of the trees and for a while we walk in silence, our feet crunching on the gravel path. As the scent of wet grass drifts up on the breeze, I begin to see the attraction of Johnny’s endless perambulations for there’s an unexpected sense of restfulness and
peace in this suburban plot of land.

  However, unwilling to allow our silence to become too companionable, and recalling my earlier intention to do some detective work, I assume my policeman’s helmet and ask: ‘So what do you think Jim meant? You know, what he said to Dee?’

  He gives me a sideways glance and does that little upward motion with his eyebrows again. ‘I’d have thought that was fairly obvious.’

  Slightly riled by his patronizing tone, I retort, ‘The accusation may have been clear but what I was trying to ask was if you thought there was any truth in it.’

  ‘Why, do you think it’s impossible that she’s having an affair?’ He runs his fingers through his hair, chasing out the drizzle that has started to fall. That familiar thin smile quivers on his lips again. ‘Too old perhaps? Too faithful? Too set in her ways?’

  I get the distinct feeling he’s amusing himself at my expense. Which irritates me even more. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you meant?’

  ‘How could you possibly know what I meant?’

  Which leaves us at a temporary stand-off, or at least I think it does, until we round the path by the pond and he says quietly: ‘Perhaps he wasn’t talking about now. Perhaps he was referring to something that happened in the past.’

  I hate myself for reacting like a gossipy housewife but the words have flown out of my mouth before I can stop them. ‘What? You mean Dee . . .?’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion.’ He gazes down at the sluggish water before slowly lifting his eyes. ‘For the sake of debate,’ he adds, with what might almost be called mischief.

  And instantly I know. I know that he knows and that he isn’t going to tell. Damn him! Although I’m tempted, oh so tempted, to pursue this fascinating line of enquiry, I’m also certain that it will be a waste of time. He has said as much as he is going to say and no matter how hard I push, I’ll only succeed in strengthening his resolve to hold his tongue. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, I merely nod and attempt, perhaps not very successfully, to appear indifferent.

  My subsequent muteness seems to amuse him as much as my questions. Walking slowly around the rim of the pond, he gives a small laugh as he reaches out with the tip of his shoe and disturbs the brown and littered surface.

  ‘Do you think there are fish in here?’

  ‘Not unless they’re masochists,’ I reply, staring down into the murky depths.

  He crouches down by the bank, finds a long stick, and like a schoolboy searching for tadpoles begins to root around the weeds. His expression is so intense, so concentrated that I feel an almost perverse curiosity about him. I wonder who he is, who he really is, how he’s spent the last eighteen years, how he’s survived them and, more to the point, what he’s intending to do next.

  The rain, falling a little harder, pocks the surface of the water and after three empty crisp packets, a bobbing dented can and a shoal of rotting leaves have been driven from the bank, he slowly rises to his feet again. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘I usually am,’ I respond, joking.

  Pulling himself to his full height, a good six inches over me, he draws back his shoulders, turns and says unexpectedly: ‘You don’t like me much, do you, Simone?’

  I couldn’t have felt more alarmed if he’d drawn a torch from his pocket and shone the beam in my eyes. My intake of breath is embarrassingly audible. In a few merciless minutes, I’ve somehow managed to pass from being arch-prosecutor to a thoroughly discomfited defendant. His gaze meets mine and the challenge is irrefutable. For a while I’m not sure what to do and then, taking refuge in that very British middle-class response of ignoring anything embarrassing or difficult, I duly gather my resources and pretend that nothing has happened.

  ‘It’s going to pour down,’ I say, cupping a hand to capture the rapidly increasing raindrops. ‘We’d better head back.’

  But as I turn a rumble of thunder rolls ominously overhead and he takes hold of my elbow and says: ‘No, we’ll get soaked. The shed’s closer.’ A flash of lightning illuminates the sky and the rain starts to pound, harder and firmer, thrashing down on to the grass and turning the ground beneath our feet to mud. There’s no time for argument. Sloshing through puddles we run the five yards, mount the shallow steps to the covered wooden veranda, and take shelter.

  ‘Lovely,’ I murmur, gazing out. Inwardly, my mind is still reeling, marginally from how Dee might react to his reference to her beloved summerhouse as a ‘shed’, but mainly from his direct and provocative question. I’m glad of the protection of the deepening dusk. At least he can’t see the flush that burns brightly on my cheeks. I’m quite sure that he senses it though, that he can feel the discomfort oozing from my bones, just as I am equally and alarmingly sure that he is pleased to have inflicted it.

  Johnny glances at me sideways through the gloom. Worried that he may be about to resurrect his unnerving interest in my bad opinion, I ask quickly: ‘So, what are your plans for the future? There must be lots of things you want to do.’

  His smile reappears at my clumsy attempt at distraction. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’ I’m tempted to add that he’s had plenty of time to think about it. ‘I really don’t know you well enough to say.’

  He gives a low unpleasant laugh. ‘But well enough to know that you don’t like me.’

  Oh Lord, so we’re back to that again! I shuffle from foot to foot, hoping the rain will ease, but as if in heavenly denial another fork of lightning splices the sky and the thunder, almost overhead now, crashes loudly around us. Flinching, I draw back a little and pull my coat closer. Then, deciding that what can’t be dismissed must inevitably be faced, I take a deep breath and ask with a stridence I don’t feel: ‘What does it matter what I think of you?’

  He pauses for a second, his grey unblinking eyes fixed intently on my mine. Refusing to be intimidated, I stare straight back. A tiny muscle twitches at the corner of his mouth but whether this is down to irritation or humour is impossible to discern.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ he replies eventually, ‘I’m just curious. When someone feels such a clear aversion, I can’t help wondering why. Is it my appearance, something I’ve said, something I’ve done?’ He emphasizes the last word as if to remind me of his history. ‘You can see my dilemma. If I don’t know what’s wrong, I can hardly begin to change it.’

  In direct contrast to the weather, an unexpected dryness has infiltrated the veranda. I find myself staring at his long thin fingers draped across the rail. ‘Why should you want to? I don’t imagine you’re the type to care much for other people’s opinions – good or bad.’ I throw him my most challenging smile but like a gift attached to elastic it bounces instantly back.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he responds slyly, ‘but when all’s said and done, it’s nice to have the choice.’

  And now I’m assailed by a secondary, even more disturbing, sensation that that I’m being drawn down a path I should avoid, that I’m being led along a route that leads directly into Johnny Frank’s manipulative universe. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I’m receiving the idea that it was him who started the Buckley argument. All it took was a word here, a word there, and Jim and Carl were at each other’s throats.

  He moves a few inches closer. ‘But never mind,’ he continues, ‘I won’t ask you to explain. I can see it makes you uncomfortable. You’ve made your judgement and I doubt there’s anything I can do to change it.’ He expels a long weary sigh. ‘I’ll just have to live with the disappointment.’

  I hold my tongue. In the circumstances, it seems the safest thing to do.

  ‘Although women have been known to change their minds,’ he adds, ruminatively. He throws me a mocking glance before shifting forward and leaning his elbows on the rail. Then, looking over his shoulder he grins again. ‘There’s no need to look so worried, sweetheart. I’m not propositioning you.’

  I’m not sure what makes me finally snap: his arrogance, his presumpt
ion? Whatever, I feel the red mist rise.

  ‘Well then, I’ll just have to live with the disappointment,’ I angrily retort, and deciding that a soaking is better than his company I stomp down the steps and into the pouring rain.

  Chapter Eight

  Johnny

  There’s more than one way to kill a man. First you have to offer him his dream, let him get within grasp of it, let him touch it and smell it – before snatching it away.

  Jim’s sitting on the sofa, sniffing the air like an overweight pug. It’s the second of January and he’s had twenty-four hours to think about my latest proposition. The scent of money’s in his nostrils but he’s trying hard to fake indifference, to pretend a pleasant chat is all he’s after on this damp and chilly afternoon. It’s been a bad week for Mr Buckley: Dee is still seething, Carl remains hostile and Marc is avoiding him. What he needs is a coup, something spectacular to restore his dignity. What he needs is a hat and a bloody big rabbit to pull out of it.

  And I’m offering him both.

  ‘Okay,’ I agree, as if instead of sitting quietly he’s been busy providing a persuasive argument, ‘so I will need some backup, some help in creating a diversion. I’m not denying it. The minute I walk out that gate, as soon as I make a move to pick up the . . . merchandise . . . Tate and his cronies will be crawling all over me. Not to mention any other bastard who fancies his chances. So fine, we can make a deal – but I won’t go higher than twenty per cent.’ Burying my hands deep in my pockets, I lower my voice and glance around for imaginary spies behind the furniture. ‘That’s a bloody good offer and you know it.’

  If he’s been doing his homework – and I’m sure he has -he’ll have the figures neatly stored in that greedy little brain of his. Pink diamonds frequently reach extravagant prices in the international auction rooms. And we’re talking thousands of dollars per carat here if the colour and weight and clarity are right. Not that we’d be able to sell them on the open market but . . . well, there are always private buyers for any desirable object.