Big Sue towers over Liberty, while Tash yanks Sister Kevin away from the scene.
Cherry rummages through Liberty’s bag and pulls out her phone. There follows an awkward few minutes, while the phone refuses to recognise Liberty’s unconscious face, even though Big Sue and Big Mand are holding open her eyelids while Cherry hovers over her.
‘What are we doing?’ Liam frets.
‘Hank Junior’s phone number,’ says Big Sue in answer. ‘Could save us a lot of trouble. She can tell him the target has already been neutralised. He is to stand down. He needs to cease and desist.’
Of course. So simple. A wave of gratitude for quick-thinking Big Sue envelops me.
‘We’re in,’ says Cherry, flicking quickly through Liberty’s contacts, while Big Mand gently slaps her face.
‘No. No. No,’ mumbles Cherry. ‘Christ, who’s PhatDawg? Her contacts read like a who’s who of Pornhub. There’s no Hank Junior. And no recent calls made or received. He mustn’t have given her his number. And no spicy pics of the two of them either. Typical hitman behaviour.’
‘No wonder he didn’t want to be in any of the photos,’ I say, remembering the High Roller.
Liberty lets out a quiet groan and winces as she comes to, then immediately snatches her phone back. ‘We didn’t need to ring each other because we’ve barely been out of each other’s sight since we met.’ She rubs her head. ‘And PhatDawg is my plumber, you cheeky bitch.’
‘Libs, hun, where do you think Hank Junior might be?’ Big Sue asks Liberty.
‘He could be anywhere,’ she croaks, trying to sit up. ‘My ankle. I think I’ve twisted it.’
We let this information percolate. It is not good.
Liam is still very tearful as I walk over to him. ‘I’m so sorry, Liam.’ I hang my head in shame. ‘It was only supposed to be a fake marriage. Something to throw Luke and Birdie off our scent.’
‘She’s right,’ says Matteo, behind me. ‘We never meant for anyone else to see us. You all seemed so busy with other things, we didn’t want to hijack your special week. We just wanted to spend a bit of time getting to know each other… alone.’ He sighs heavily. ‘It doesn’t matter now because, apparently, we’relegallymarried. We’ve got the rest of our lives to get to know each other.’ He waves the certificate around, his voice rising with each word. ‘And we’re also caught up in a potential murder, so what does any of it matter anyway, in the grand scheme of things?’
‘So, you’re saying our being married doesn’t matter?’ My voice comes out shrill. My eyes have overfilled again. A solitary tear spills down my cheek.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Matteo says, annoyed.
‘You did,’ says Cherry. ‘We all heard you.’
Suddenly there’s an atmosphere between us.
‘Look, the wedding is the least of our worries,’ says Matteo through tight lips. ‘Can we… just sort out Hank Junior first? Then we’ll all sit down and talk about what to do next. But Liam, Ged, none of this was Connie’s idea. It was all mine. Don’t be angry with her. This ridiculous mess is all my fault. I pushed her into it.’
‘Well, technically, it was my idea,’ corrects Cherry.
‘You didn’t push me into it,’ I say sharply. ‘I wanted to marry you. And I thought you wanted to marry me.’
Matteo gives me an exasperated look.
‘None of this is helping,’ booms Big Mand as she heaves a barely mobile Liberty up and over her shoulder. ‘Come on. Why don’t you two give each other some space? We can point fingers later.’
‘Fine, yes,’ Matteo agrees, a little too readily for my liking. He is no longer holding my hand or gazing at me in a star-struck fashion.
Why does he need space? From me? We’ve only been married two minutes.
‘And that’s the forty-five minutes up,’ says a man with a video camera. He smiles at Matteo. He is wearing a‘Weddings at The Venetian’polo shirt and an amused expression. ‘You can have as many stills from this footage as you like as part of the wedding package,’ he explains cheerily. ‘As well as footage from the onboard gondola video camera, of course. We’ll email you the links, and you do it all on the website.’
We stand, stunned, as he bends to snap shut his equipment and pack it away at lightning speed. He scuttles off through the crowd with his tripod over his shoulder, as though this bizarre scene is very much his normal day-to-day experience of Vegas weddings.
‘Fuck me.’ Matteo rakes a hand through his hair, the other holding our wedding certificate. ‘This day just keeps on giving.’ He sounds exhausted with it all, and I can’t blame him, but his words cut right through me.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
