Cutlery. We weren’t allowed knives and forks at Larksmere, not the real stuff anyway, for obvious reasons, I suppose. Instead, we had to eat our meals using these strange latex rubberknives and forks, which proved especially challenging on ‘meat Mondays’. You needed a hacksaw to get through some of the unidentifiable chewy gristle they served up to us. Often, I gave up and used my fingers instead, like a savage.When in Rome…
‘Is it just you who’ll be staying the two nights?’ Delilah flicks me a sideways glance, key poised in the door.Why is she still here? How hard can it be to turn on a frickin’ hob?
‘You really don’t need to worry about showing me around,’ I say, as if she needn’t waste any more of her valuable time. ‘I’m sure it’s all pretty self-explanatory.’
‘It’s no bother.’ She watches me closely. My paranoia is fast becoming harder to ignore – it’s the way she’s looking at me. ‘I like to give all my guests a brief once-round, show them what’s what. That way you won’t need to contact me, unless it’s an emergency of course, like a leak, or an explosion, or there’s a dead body or something.’
A dead body?It’s a strange thing to say and it stops me in my tracks for a second. Is it just an attempt at humour, or something else?
‘Here we are,’ she says proudly as we enter the apartment. Immediately, she begins plumping up the cushions on the huge, impressive-looking sofa. It’s a thing of beauty, this sofa, large and low and L-shaped in a rich, dark aubergine-coloured velvet with sumptuous, squishy-looking cushioned seats that make you want to take a run up and throw yourself into them.It’s got Samantha Valentine written all over it.
I check the time. It’s coming on for 9 p.m., although it’s been dark for a couple of hours or so now. I wonder if the police have turned up at the Bull and Barrow yet, or if they’re there right now with their battering rams and taser guns and shouty loud voices. I bite my bottom lip, stifle a smile. Creepy Pete is going to curse me to hell. But I doubt he’ll talk. He’s the one who has provided me with a deadly weapon after all. I could murderthat scampi and chips now though, pardon the inappropriate pun. I’ve only eaten half a family bag of M&M’s all day and my stomach is making embarrassingly loud growling noises. I hope Princess Tippy-Toes here hasn’t heard them.
I wander over to the hi-spec open kitchen area, run the tips of my fingers over the smooth, sparkly diamond granite work surface. Oh, to live in a place like this! Maybe I could’ve,would’ve,done, if I’d never met Samantha. Who knows what my life would’ve gone on to become if I hadn’t shown up to the job interview that day, if I’d missed the bus, or got sick?Why couldn’t I have just got sick?
They say you should never think about the coulda, shoulda, woulda in life, but for me, that’s impossible. I’ve had my life snatched from me, my freedom and liberty, my reputation and my future –my sanity. The sense of this loss burns like a raging fire inside of me that can’t be extinguished – at least, not until I find her.
I spot the large wooden knife block, sitting next to a shiny chrome, full barista-style coffee machine that looks like it’s never been used, with the six, dark wooden handles in various sizes protruding from it. I remove the largest from the block, feel the solid wood, weighty in my hand, the curved, perfectly shiny blade, cold to the touch against my skin. For a moment I’m mesmerised by my warped reflection in the blade, stare at my misshapen image, somehow indicative of how I am now – a distorted version of myself.
He flashes up in front of me then – Bojan Radulovic. I see his handsome features as he comes towards me, the flash from the blade as I bring it down into his chest, and the whites of his eyes as they expand in horror and shock and fear.
I grip the knife tighter in my hand, will the flashback to pass. I can barely bring myself to think about that day, that pivotal moment when his life ended and mine did too, metaphoricallyanyway, but try as I must to lock it away in the recesses of my memory, it returns with a vengeance, each time with a touch more clarity than before. I know there’s only one way to erase it for good.
‘…Annnnd…’I realise thatDelilah has been talking in the background and I haven’t heard a word she’s said. I quickly replace the knife before she sees me with it. ‘Thepièce de résistance… ta-da!’
The floor-to-ceiling shutters make a satisfying clicking sound as she concertinas them open. I can tell that this is her favourite part of the tour – the big reveal.
‘How’s that for a view?’ She stands back, checks my expression eagerly. ‘Phenomenal, isn’t it?’ She sighs. ‘I never tire of it.’
I stare out at the London skyline, at the clusters of buildings that look like they’re made out of mirrors, reflecting the light, even on a miserable, damp day like today. It’s not a view I’m familiar with, I’m a Yorkshire lass, more accustomed to rolling hills and countryside,and padded cells. Admittedly, it’s impressive nonetheless.
‘That’s the old power station over there,’ she points. ‘They regenerated it some years ago and there’s a great shopping centre inside, some cool bars and bistros… everything you need, yah?’
I nod. What Ineedis for her to leave now. ‘Well,’ she says, placing the set of keys on the table with a loud clank that I’m sure wasn’t intended. ‘Enjoy your stay, Alexandra.’
‘Thanks so much, Delilah – and, don’t worry,’ – I smile at her, sweetly – ‘I’ll be sure to let you know if any dead bodies turn up.’
THIRTY-FIVE
DAN
‘You gonna pay for that damage then or what?’ The landlord at the Bull and Barrow jabs his finger in the direction of the broken door, his eyes bulging, clearly vexed. The door is off the hinge, the wood split in too many places to ever be salvageable. It’s the direct result of the ‘element of surprise’. And boy, is he unhappy about it.
‘You lot think you can just steam in here, mob-handed and smash the gaff up, don’t you?’ he spits, angrily. ‘Damaging my propertyandmy reputation?’
‘Well, at least you can restore the door,’ Davis remarks, poker-faced.
He turns to her sharply. ‘Funny.’ He growls. ‘Where’s your warrant, eh?’
Pete Samson, the renowned landlord of the notorious Bull and Barrow public house, isn’t a small man. Somewhere around six foot four with a thick, heavy-set build, he has a slight stoop from his shoulders and looks like he snacks on small children for breakfast. Lucky for Davis and me, he’s outnumbered today. And speaking of small children, at some point, I’d really like to get home to see my own. I’ve been on the go for the past seventy-two hours practically straight.
‘We don’t need one, Pete – I can call you Pete, can I? My name’s Detective Chief…’
‘I don’t give a rat’s arse what your name is, sunshine—’ he booms, ‘get out of my pub, go on, all of you, piss off. You’ve got no business here, no business preventing me from runningmy business.’ The veins in his neck are purple and protruding. ‘Everything’s legit, my taxes are up to date, you’ll find nothing you’re looking for here. And no, you can’t bleedin’ well call me Pete.’ A fleck of spittle lands on my cheek as he angrily projects. ‘This is persecution, this is, police harassment… it’s criminal damage is what it is…’
I wipe his spittle off my face with the back of my hand. I could be wrong, but something tells me that the offer of a free drink might be off the table.
‘Do you know the reason we’re here, Mr Samson? We can always talk about it down at the station if you prefer. You can make a complaint there if you like.’ I flash him a rictus grin.
