Vengeful love, p.18
Vengeful Love, page 18
Lara sniffs and wipes her face with one hand, finishing her Scotch with the other.
“Gregory hates his father, hates him, and I do too.”
I want to say I hate Pearson and I hate Gregory too but no words leave my mouth. I stare at the cement between the bricks on the fireplace.
“He can’t stand the thought that you’re hurting because of him.”
I continue to stare at the cement until it starts to infiltrate me, crushing my ribcage, the weight excruciating against my heart.
“You probably think he deserves to hurt and I don’t blame you but I do want you to know that the last thing he would ever want to do is cause you pain. He’s my little boy, Scarlett. My brave, five-year-old little boy and I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”
“A life for a life.” I whisper.
I hear Lara place her glass on the bar table and leave the room. Within seconds, Sandy closes the front door behind Lara and Jackson.
“Are you okay?” Sandy asks in her soft, comforting way.
I wipe silent tears from my cheeks then move to the sofa, not knowing or understanding how I should answer that question. Sandy takes the almost empty whisky glass from my hand and places it on the bar table without offering me more.
She takes a seat beside me so that her hip is touching mine. “Jackson told me everything.”
Pulling my knees into my chest, I wonder whether Jackson has always known about Gregory’s past and whether he’s betrayed Gregory’s confidence in telling Sandy the truth but I’m grateful that she finally knows what I’ve done.
I ask the question I’ve been trying to answer for myself. “Do you hate me?”
“Hate you? Of course not! This is not your fault.”
I shake my head.
“It’s nobody’s fault but one very sick man.”
“Sandy, I knew what Gregory was doing. I knew the whole thing and I still helped them do it.”
She places one hand on my knee. “You weren’t to know anything like this would happen, Scarlett. You did what you did for the right reasons.”
Whether it’s her words or the comfort of her hand on my knee, my eyes fill again.
Silence hovers in the room, a manifestation of a thousand unspoken words. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes quarter to then on the hour and ticks perfectly in between.
Sandy eventually pierces the air. “I can understand why Gregory would want to hurt that vile man. Which child wouldn’t want revenge against a man who tried to kill someone so dear to them, someone who’s the center of their entire world?”
I turn to see her arms folded across her chest. Her expression steely. It’s a look I don’t ever remember seeing on Sandy.
“Doctor Heath should’ve never been caught up in all of this but...but I will say this once and once only, there were times in that hospital that I wanted to end it for him.”
One violent sob escapes me and I admit, “Me too.”
Sandy kisses me on the cheek and wraps an arm around me, pulling me into her chest. “Scarlett, I’m angry, incredibly angry but I’ve only ever seen you smile with one other man the way you smile when you’re around Gregory.”
I push back from her chest. “You’re not defending him?”
“No. I’m not. I don’t give two hoots about him. I just want you to make sure your anger is in the right place, that’s all, for your own sake.”
I stare blankly, trying but unable to organise the multitude of thoughts and emotions locked inside my throbbing head.
Which child wouldn’t want revenge against a man who tried to kill someone so dear to them?
“Shall we bake?” she asks.
“Pardon?”
“Let’s bake something. Together like old times.”
Bemused, I let out a short, snotty, tearful laugh.
We sing to the radio and blend cake mixture into the early hours of the morning. Sandy lets me scrape the last of the mixture from the bowl and she licks the wooden spoon. It’s two o’clock by the time we sit down to eat our cream cakes with milky hot chocolate.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gregory
The last thing I needed was the man I’d trust with my life, the only man I’d trust with my life, going behind my back.
The door to the apartment opens, pushing the remnants of a crystal brandy glass across the hardwood floor. The floor lights break the black of the lounge.
“Greg?” Jackson shouts, panicked.
Then he sees me, sitting in the black leather chair where I’ve been since I left the office, the remaining half decanter of brandy on the glass-top table next to me.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, assessing the broken glass at his feet and the hole I’ve punched in the plastered wall.
I turn to face the city and take a swig of brandy. “I told you not to take her.”
Jackson takes a brandy glass from the kitchen, fills it and takes a seat on the sofa. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and drinks.
“You going to fire me for the second time in three days?”
“I ought to.”
“Lara asked me to take her to Scarlett.”
“And I told you not to.”
He sighs and rubs a hand across his face. “We’re both trying to help you.”
“I don’t pay you to make my fucking decisions for me.”
“No, but you do pay me to watch your blindside.”
“Scarlett isn’t my blindside, Jackson, she’s all I can fucking think about.” It’s true. I don’t know when it happened but every time I close my eyes, I see her perfect face, those captivating green eyes with the lightest tinge of brown. Exquisite. The way two cute dimples form at the sides of her beautiful soft lips when she smiles. The innocence of that perfect fucking giggle, so alluring it could come close to infiltrating my iron heart.
“That’s exactly why she’s your blindside.”
I put down my glass and pull both hands through my hair. I walk to the window and look down over the city.
“How was she?”
“A mess.”
“I’ve really fucked up.” I’ll never see the way her lean body moves again. Her immaculate naked flesh, like silk to touch. The way she questions herself, not knowing just how fucking devastating those curves and flat stomach are when she’s moving over my cock. That arse. Those unbelievable tits.
“You didn’t know he’d go after her, Greg.”
“She’ll never see me again and I don’t fucking blame her.”
Jackson moves to stand beside me and takes a swig of brandy, looking straight ahead through the window. “Does it matter?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A legitimate one.”
I push my hands into my trouser pockets and watch Jackson’s faint reflection in the glass pane.
“Is she just another one? Do you want her because you can’t buy her? Or do you care about her? If she’s just another fuck, Greg, then be fair to her and let her go. She’s been through enough.”
“And what if she’s not? What if she’s different?”
“Then you’ve got to do what you seem incapable of doing. You’ve got to let her in.”
I thump the window with the side of my fist and let it rest there above my head.
“You have to stop letting the past ruin your life, kid.”
I don’t know how.
Jackson refills his own glass then tops up mine. “Let’s end this. Let’s end it for good. My way this time.”
I move back to my seat and gulp half the brandy in my glass. “Alright, bru. Find him.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
With my iPod strapped to my arm, I run in the morning light for miles, my breath forming clouds around me, my fingers glowing red under the cold bite of the air. The music shields me from passersby who might want to say “good morning” or “condolences,” keeps me concentrating on making sure my feet touch the ground without tripping and prevents my mind from wandering into the shadows. I run until sweat pours out of me and I have nothing left to give.
Dereck Marshall—Dereck Death, as Sandy calls him—arrives at eleven. It’s such a peculiar choice of vocation, a funeral director. At what age does a person wake up one morning and think I know what I’m going to do with my life, I’ve found my true calling; I’m going to be a funeral director? This is what I’m thinking about as Dereck Death rubs a hand through his grey-white hair, shuffles his glasses on the end of his nose, then pulls out a leather-bound picture book. The snow-white album looks ironically like a wedding album, only, rather than signifying a new life, Dereck Death’s album represents the end of a story, the finale to the play of life. He begins some rhetoric about the importance of an eloquent close to one’s time on earth as he flicks the pages from high gloss white coffins to a soft rosewood option, then from black marble heart-shaped headstones to grey angular alternatives.
Perhaps because of the way my father used to deal with death—professional, detached—I find it easy to be emotionally disconnected from the process of choosing flowers and deciding whether my father would like a gold or silver plaque on top of his coffin. The minute detail of how he’ll be buried bears no relation to my father, his life, the man he was or still is in my memory. We agree to hold a wake at a hotel close to the church where the service will take place but even as I work through the details, I know I won’t attend. I have no desire to listen to those who were absent in my father’s time of need regale a room with stories of how close they were and the good times they shared. They can brag amongst themselves.
After he places his leather book back into his zip-up bag and straightens the legs of his grey wool trousers, Dereck Death makes his own way toward the door.
“I’ve had confirmation now of the postmortem results. Natural causes, so I see no reason why we won’t be able to work to Friday,” he says.
I know the truth.
“Scarlett. Scarlett. Dereck is leaving,” Sandy says.
“Hmm? Sorry, ah, yes, thank you,” I say, shaking Dereck’s hand.
“Are you okay?” Sandy asks when the door is closed.
“Yes, of course. Fine. Are you okay?”
She nods once.
“Would you mind if I go into the office today?”
“Oh, Scarlett, I know you feel better but I don’t think you’re ready for that.”
“That’s just it. I feel better today because you took my mind off things last night and I’ve been for a run, made breakfast and spoken to Dereck Death and it all means I can stop thinking about it. I don’t have time to go over the details of what happened in my head when I’m doing things. I can’t miss him and I can’t wonder what would’ve happened if I’d never taken that deal. You could come with me, if you like. We can call into my office briefly then maybe go for coffee, get out of this house?”
She shakes her head and rubs her hands uncomfortably down the front of her brown wool dress. “Just don’t do too much.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
In my mind, I think the process of getting the tube to work will be so incredibly normal it’ll be easy to forget that everything has fundamentally changed. I take a seat and watch as a man sits opposite me and opens his broadsheet newspaper, spreading it wide so that the boy next to him is forced to lean to one side. Two girls with Northern accents get on a few stops later, pouting and holding their mass of shopping bags from Selfridges, Liberty and Topshop. Things are normal. The problem is things are so normal I can’t stand it. I want to scream to these people, how can you be normal when my father is dead? Do you hear me? My father is dead!
I once read somewhere that if you think of having a clear mind, you can will it to happen eventually. Over and over in my head I repeat the words, clear mind, clear mind. My mind is not clear. Turning up the volume on my iPod, I close my eyes and focus on the lyrics as James Blunt sings “You’re Beautiful.” At the next stop the tube jerks, rocking my body to one side. People alight and are replaced by others. A man with a sausage dog on a tan leather lead. A businesswoman wearing a navy checkered suit, holding a briefcase and smelling of sweet, exotic flowers. Then I see her, a middle-aged woman in knee-high brown boots and a wrap-over floral dress beneath her winter coat. She turns at the doors to face the platform and her bouncing red curls fall from her back around her shoulder. She bends to pick up a small Garfield cartoon suitcase on wheels. Then, standing by her side and clutching her coat with two hands, I see that familiar little boy from my dreams. The tube jerks and is moving again. The boy stares at me, afraid, asking for my help.
At the next stop, I get off and walk the rest of the way to the office under the cover of grey clouds and threatening sky, which makes it too hot and muggy for the scarf around my neck. The streets are quiet compared to rush hour but the sounds of fast-paced heels tapping the pavement as they make their way to an important engagement and smart-suited men chatting into phones with animated flailing arms, are still present. There’s always the quiet, studious man or woman wandering with their head in a book or a newspaper, inevitably bumped by an impatient passerby in a hurry to get to their next meeting or to the front of the Caffe Nero queue for their next caffeine fix.
Paul, the homeless guy who usually keeps a daytime plot outside my office block with his blue sleeping bag, smiles at me as I drop two pound coins into his white cardboard cup. “Thanks, Scarlett.”
I’d usually make conversation but today I’m just not in the mood.
A receptionist in the atrium greets me as I push through the glass doors of the building; she waves me on toward the lifts. Staring in the lift mirror at the bags under my dark eyes, which I refused to cover with industrial concealer, I ask myself why I’m doing this.
Whispers in the secretarial area begin as soon as I step out of the lift. Margaret almost covers herself in coffee as she snorts through the sloshing liquid in her Best Grandma mug.
“Scarlett! I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
What she really means is don’t you care at all about your father?
“I’ve got a lot to do,” I say, biting down on the inside of my cheeks.
Everything in my office looks as it did just days ago yet it’s changed somehow. As my computer beeps into life, Margaret finally plucks up enough courage to ask if I’d like a coffee. Almost reluctantly, she asks how I am.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says quickly but not as quick as the move she makes to leave the office to get me a latte.
Amanda appears at my office door.
“Hey you,” she says, her arms already around me, pulling me up from my chair. “How’re you doing?”
She doesn’t ask why I’m in the office, she’s just Amanda, perching herself on the end of my desk.
“Much better for seeing you,” I confess. “Talk to me about anything except my father, please.”
Her straight face breaks into a pursed lip smile. “Okay. Just let me say, you know where I am and you know I want you to ask for my help if you need it. Whether it’s an ice cream and movie companion, a work bitch to dump stuff on or a shoulder to cry on, okay?”
“Okay,” I laugh. “Now, what’s been happening? Did you have a good weekend?”
“It was—Oh, have you heard about Jack?” she says excitedly, jumping from the edge of my desk and sending her amber curls bouncing from her shoulders.
Insects crawl over the tiny hairs on my skin beneath my black fitted dress, causing me to shudder. “What about him?”
“One sec.” She runs from my office then returns at lightning pace, holding a tabloid newspaper open to page seven.
“Alright, alright, I’m not blind,” I say, grabbing the paper from her to read.
LOCAL MAN CHARGED WITH SEXUAL ASSAULT
A local man by the name of Jack Arthur Jones was arrested and charged last night after voluntarily confessing to police the names of three female victims he has sexually assaulted. A lawyer for Jack Jones has informed the press that his client will not be requesting bail and a trial date will be announced in the coming weeks...
“Can you believe it?” Amanda squeals. “I always thought there was something seedy about him. He never tried anything with you did he?”
I shake my head and pass the paper back to Amanda.
“I wonder why he would just hand himself in like that,” she says, throwing the folded newspaper into the bin at the side of my desk.
“Guilt maybe.” I shrug, feigning nonchalance but already wondering what part Gregory played in this.
“A man like that? I doubt it. And three women! Three!”
I see Gregory’s red knuckles in my mind and hear his words, “He’s going to get what’s coming to him.” Chills strike my neck and shoulders. I’m grateful for the interruption of Margaret’s tiptoeing kitten heels.
