Kiss Me Quick (24 page)

Vince’s mouth slipped into a knowing smile. ‘I’ve got a hunch that if the shoe was on the other foot, you wouldn’t tell me, would you, Murray?’

‘Correct.’

Vince and Murray the Head were sitting in Vince’s car outside the Grand. Eddie Tobin had booked into the hotel twenty minutes ago. Vince had already concluded that they needed a decoy. The Head concurred and provided one, the statuesque redhead Vince had seen at his side at the races: Valerie the Volcano. Her reputation and the gags were plentiful and obvious: when she blew, you knew about it. Not far off six foot in her stockinged feet, with flame-red hair, she was stunning in a sexually
unmanageable
way. No one could handle Valerie, simply too hot. Of Scottish extraction and male distraction, born and bred under the sound of Bow bells and wolf whistles. Fiery, feisty, full-lipped, long-lashed with cheekbones that just didn’t give up. Broad of shoulder and beam, providing an hour-glass figure you’d happily spend your finest sixty minutes watching, and fortified with biblical bosoms that heaved and hoed with every breathless coo and sigh, the Volcano oozed sex and heat. But she was the Vesuvius you could not mount – because she was the property of Murray the Head.

The Head had tamed her, taught her and cultivated her with diamonds, furs and the good life. She was his muse, his
benchmark
for taste. He wouldn’t steal anything unless the Volcano could carry it off. And carry it off she did, with stolen jewels stashed away in her backcombed beehive, her heaving cleavage, or places too sweet and sweaty to mention, as she sashayed her way through various airports, customs stops and Checkpoint Charlies.

Ten minutes after Eddie Tobin had checked into the hotel, she stepped out of the car and into her position at the hotel bar. The way the Head and Vince figured it, Tobin, who liked a drink and was probably having his whole stay here paid for, would mosey on down to the bar before dinner. There the Volcano, the Venus flytrap, would be waiting to snag him up in conversation and promises, and keep him enthralled for as long as it took to let the Head get into his room, search the place and procure the
painting
. Back in the bar, Tobin, thinking he was on for a night of rapture and eruption with the Volcano, would then receive a slap across the chops and hear,
‘What kind of girl do you take me for?’
ringing in his ears with indignant rage as he watched her shimmy out of the bar and straight into the arms of the Head, exiting the hotel with the painting concealed about his person.

The Head checked his platinum Cartier Tank watch. ‘Meet me at midnight in the Brunswick,’ he said, eyes still on his watch.

Vince checked his own watch, neither platinum nor Cartier, and not stolen. It was only 8.30 p.m. ‘Will it take that long?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Either way, midnight’s got a nice ring to it. Better than quarter past ten.’

Vince watched the Head saunter over to the Grand Hotel, then rotate out of view through the revolving door.

Vaughn was happy, or as happy as any man walking in tight shoes could be. His suede, tasselled loafers were on his feet and his wizened flowers were in his hand, and his head and body oozed the comfort and concord that only Chasing the Dragon could provide. He reckoned that he’d missed meeting Wendy at the station, but he still had a few quid in his pocket, so he put it to good use. Instead of walking on his throbbing feet or catching a bus, he got into a cab and headed home to Waterloo Street.

On the ride home, he thought firstly about his new shoes. He’d stuff the loafers with damp newspaper overnight, which would loosen them up and take away the pain. Then he thought about an excuse to fob his girl off with, as to why he’d missed meeting her train. Easygoing, gullible or trusting as she was, she’d swallow any reason he thought up. So he soon went back to thinking about his shoes.

As the cab swung into Waterloo Street, he noticed a small crowd gathered near his flat, so he asked the driver to slow down. As the cab eased past the basement flat, he saw two uniformed coppers posted at the entrance to the steps, and a black vehicle parked right outside. He’d seen these before: black and ominous allowing enough room for one fully outstretched passenger in the rear for a ride you didn’t want to take: destination the morgue.

Vaughn froze in the back seat, as stiff as a corpse himself, as the rigor mortis of a grim realization set in. When the cabbie asked where he wanted dropping off, Vaughn, his mind racing but going nowhere, chose as far away as his remaining funds would take him.

Vince took out the spare key that Bobbie had given him and twirled it in the lock, but the door was already open. He stepped into the vestibule, checked the newly replaced lock, and saw that it was on the latch. Sensing something was wrong, Vince bolted up the stairs to Bobbie’s apartment. Quietening his breath, he tried the door handle, found it was locked. He therefore unlocked it and stepped cautiously over the threshold. The room was in total darkness, the heavy curtains drawn.

Vince carefully closed the door behind him, found the light switch beside the door and threw it. He headed through to the living room, then jumped back as his heart jackknifed. Bobbie stood before him with a gun gripped in both hands. She was naked.

Vince’s first reaction was to put his hands up, as the gun was solidly trained on him. Her legs were slightly apart for better balance, as if she was about to fire off a shot. As guns went it was big, and it looked huge in her delicate hands.

Voice hushed, he tried, ‘Bobbie …?’

No reply. She stood transfixed, didn’t move.

He looked into her eyes: they were wide open, intently focused. He took a half step to the side. They stayed focused, but not on him; instead on the spot he had just vacated. He carried on side-stepping, as silent as a crab on wet sand, until he was now over to the side of her, but about five feet away. Still she didn’t move. Her eyes remained wide, too wide, their natural almond shape disfigured into unblinking saucers. Her body was
unflinching
, as if caught in a trance, witnessing a ghost in her sights. As Vince edged towards her, he realized she was in the grip of some terrible nightmare.

His first thought was not to wake her, having heard that you must never wake a sleepwalker, since the shock might kill them. He’d also heard that if you dream about falling from a tall
building
and you hit the deck, you never wake up. He didn’t believe that; it was just a piece of nocturnal nonsense that some dozy chump had dreamed up – for how could anyone live to tell the tale? All the same, he wasn’t going to take the chance.

His second thought was to get the gun out of her hand. He’d heard they fired bullets that could kill you – that he knew for a fact! Two more paces and he was by her side. He could feel her breath on his cheek, like short bursts of warm exhaust. He put his arm gently around her waist. She smelled sweet, almost sickly sweet, reminded him of—

‘
Ahhhh!
’ She let out a scream. It was genuinely piercing, because it was only about an inch from his ear. He grabbed both her hands and shook the gun out of them, gathered her up, eyes following where the gun was landing and keeping them out of the way of its muzzle. The gun landed where he wanted it to: on a heavy floor cushion by her side. It did a bounce, a little somersault, then flopped on to the heavy Persian rug. A satisfactorily soft landing, with no sudden jolts and no bullets discharged.

Vince held Bobbie tightly. Her eyes were now closed, her face scrunched up as if to make sure they stayed that way. There was fight in her body, but Vince wouldn’t allow it freedom to express itself. He held her tight and close, overwhelmed by the desire to protect her. He whispered softly in her ear, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, baby, it’s OK, it’s me, baby, it’s me …’

He didn’t know if these words would soothe or anger her, considering the way they had left things that same afternoon. He needn’t have worried, though, for she wrapped herself around him so tight that her feet were almost lifted off the floor. He carried her over to the pouting Mae West red-lip sofa. She was entwined around him. She wouldn’t let go. And he didn’t want her to. Her hair was damp, her body glistened with a sheen of sweat; it was as if she had just stepped out of the shower. But her scent wasn’t fresh; it was sweet, ripe, syrupy and sickly all at the same time. That was a smell he knew he would never forget, a smell that would be on constant recall. On her arms and around her body she had elongated red marks like tiger stripes, where she must have tossed and turned as the nightmare twisted and tightened its hold, the silk sheets wrapping around her like ropes, fettering her to the four-poster bed until she finally broke free …

And then the gun …
the gun
?

On the sofa she gripped him tightly, till it felt as though she was welded underneath him. He grabbed her hair, pulled back her head, tugging her face away from his chest, and softly he licked her lips. Eyes still closed, she smiled, yet her mouth looked twisted, deceitful, arrogant. Vince had known this was going to happen from the moment he’d lit her cigarette in the Blue Orchid. As their hands touched, they had flinched, as a charge passed between them, alerting them both to the inevitable. And here they were now, both naked, as she wrapped herself around him.

His hands gripped her hair. She bit into his lip. He pulled his mouth away from hers so he could study her face as they built up a rhythm. He wanted to look at her. Observe her. Soak up every moment. Have it seared visually in his memory like a
painting
, and not just the physical sensations coursing through his body: her face, her breasts, her hips, that smooth damp belly, the mound of her vagina pushing into his crotch. The way he held her, dominating her, seemed brutal but she was complicit, eyes still closed, as if asleep, but so wide awake, so very alive. Vince closed his own eyes, put his mouth back to hers, felt the scrape of teeth as they found each other, melded together and came.

Vince stood naked in the living room. The gun was in his hand. It was a Smith & Wesson, a big heavy black thing. It was jammed up and rusted, hadn’t been oiled or used for an age, so he couldn’t even tell if it was loaded. He didn’t like guns. Didn’t like the feel of them or what they did. He carried it over to the big black bureau, opened a drawer and put it inside.

He then padded back into the bedroom and slipped under the sheets alongside Bobbie. She was fully awake: arms outstretched behind her, gripping the struts of the headboard, a sated smile transforming her face. The bad dream was vanquished, the memory of what they’d just done still fresh.

‘The gun – is that the one your husband was given to look after?’

She didn’t look at him, but said languidly, ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Say what?’

‘Husband.’

‘Well, you are still married.’

‘What is the statute of limitations on that?’

‘There isn’t. There’s only death and divorce.’

She smiled and said, ‘I’ll look into the latter.’

‘Keep messing with guns, you’ll be looking at the former. Is it loaded?’

‘I’ve never used it.’

‘Don’t try. If it is loaded, it’ll blow up in your face. Want to tell me about it?’

‘The gun? I don’t know anything about—’

‘The dream.’

‘Oh, the nightmare.’

‘The nightmare.’

‘The usual,’ she sighed, closing her eyes. She was obviously used to it and bored with it. It held no surprises for her now. It was just tiring – truly tiring – and no longer terrifying. Or that’s what she told herself, unconvincingly, whenever she awoke from it. Dismissing it thus helped to take the power out of it.

‘Who was climbing the stairs this time, Jack or your father?’

Her eyes opened and, still looking up at the stripy canopy, she pointedly said, ‘Stepfather.’

‘Sorry, stepfather. Well …?’

She thought about it, then turned to him. ‘You.’

‘
Me?
’

‘Well, you were the one who walked through the door.’

‘I’m your nightmare?’

‘No. My dreamboat.’ Bobbie leaned forward and bit him on the nose, then pretended to kiss it better. She sat up, reached over to the bedside table, and fished a cigarette out of the packet that lay in a heavy crystal ashtray along with her lighter. With the curtains open, there was enough moonlight for Vince to examine her body: svelte, flawless, taut skin, nipples like bullets, no unsightly bulges or ripples. She then glanced around and caught him
looking
. She smiled, confident in her nakedness, knowing she looked good, knowing she didn’t have to grab at the sheets to cover
herself
. She lit up the cigarette, took the heavy crystal ashtray and rested it on Vince’s chest. Bobbie took a long drag of the
cigarette
, lay back and exhaled slowly, sending a jet of smoke up into the canopy. ‘To be honest,’ she said reflectively, ‘I don’t know who it was, because I woke up. I always wake up.’

‘Do you always sleepwalk?’

‘Sometimes.’ She then creased her brow, as if puzzled by her own actions. ‘But it’s the first time I’ve woken up with a gun in my hand. I forgot I even had it. Jack didn’t know about it, and he certainly wouldn’t have been happy about it. He didn’t keep a gun in the house in case the place was searched.’ She took another long draw of the cigarette and blew out three perfectly formed smoke rings to join the gathering fog above them.

Vince watched them float up and smiled. He’d never seen a girl do that before; it was considered a boy’s trick. The smoke hung in the airless room, swirling around, encircling them. It gave the bed, the room, the moment, an ethereal feel.

Staring up at those clouds of smoke, Bobbie said, ‘They say that if you dream you’re falling from a great height, say Beachy Head, and if in your dream you hit the ground, you never wake up. Although, how the hell would they know that?’

Vince smiled.
Great minds
… ‘More pertinently,’ he said, ‘I heard that if you shoot people who walk through doors, you swing for it.’

‘But I was asleep.’

‘Technically you were, but by the time the police arrived, there was a good chance you’d be awake.’

‘Sleepwalking, that’s a good alibi. I’ll remember that one.’ She kissed him. ‘I wouldn’t shoot you. You’re far too gorgeous.’ She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, took the crystal
ashtray
and put it back on the bedside table and lay back next to him. Her fingertips glided over the smooth firmness of his chest and shoulders, over the defined ridges of his biceps. She could feel him tense as her hand passed over him, as she had known all men react when touched: chest out, stomach in. She smiled at their predictable vanity, and settled her head on his chest.

‘Did you see the girl, Wendy?’ asked Vince solemnly.

Bobbie let out a slow, sad sigh. ‘I saw her. And your friend Machin was there. He made some snide comments about you, so I’ve got the feeling he knows about us.’

‘I guarantee he does,’ Vince said, without any surprise. ‘He’s probably had me followed ever since I got here. Tell me about Wendy, though.’

‘It was horrible. Machin wouldn’t let me touch her and, to be honest, I’m glad. I don’t think I even could have. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Do you know what was so horrible about it?’

‘I saw her, Bobbie. I know what you mean.’

‘No, you don’t. They’d obviously cleaned her up, brushed her hair, tried to make … to make her look presentable, I suppose. What was so horrible was that she looked as if she belonged there. She seemed at peace – like she was always meant to be dead.’

Vince withdrew his arm from around Bobbie’s shoulder. The luminous markers on his watch told him it was ten past midnight. ‘Shit!’ he said, throwing back the sheets and springing out of bed.

‘Where are you going?’

He ran out to the living room where his discarded clothes lay.

Bobbie sat up and called out, ‘Vincent!’

‘Got an appointment with Murray the Head!’ he said, pulling on his trousers.

‘The Head?!’

‘Yeah, you know him?’

‘Of course! I know his girlfriend, too!’

‘The Volcano?!’

Vince was almost dressed when Bobbie came into the living room. She sat on the arm of a chair and watched him slide his broad shoulders into his jacket, then said, ‘Valerie, she’s quite a character.’

Vince looked around and noticed she was wearing Jack’s
monogrammed
towelling robe. That nettled him. He wondered why she still wore it, did it still hold his smell? Did it remind her of him? Bring him closer to her?

‘Why are you seeing Murray?’ she asked.

Vince headed for the front door. ‘I’ll tell you when I get back. I won’t be long.’ He turned around and looked at her, unable to hide his irritation. ‘That robe, it looks ugly on you.’

She frowned, then glanced down at the big embroidered initials,
JR
, as if noticing them for the first time. She had
unthinkingly
grabbed it off the back of the bedroom door where it hung. But she understood his irritation, knowing how she would have felt the same if the shoe was on the other foot.