The Talisman (65 page)

He walked into the hotel and took the elevator up to their suite. He wanted a hot bath and food, his shirt was sticking to his back. He dropped his briefcase on to the bed, pulled his shirt off and threw it aside. ‘Harry? You on the balcony?’ Getting no answer he looked at his watch, it was after eight. He crossed to the phone to ring down to the main dining room and saw her note. He angrily placed a call through to Skye. No reply. He ordered room service, and then took a shower.

He rang Skye three more times during the evening. His anger turned to genuine worry when at eleven o’clock she still had not returned . . . at twelve o’clock he was driving around the streets looking for Skye Duval’s car. He stopped at a phone booth and called Skye yet again, and still could get no reply. He called the hotel, and Mrs Barkley had not returned . . . he sat in icy fury in the car and banged the steering wheel. Where would that bastard take her at this hour?

Skye was exhausted, he sat slumped on a bar stool. Harriet was sitting between four blacks and a hooker known as Tricks, because she never missed one. Harriet was holding forth about black rights, and Skye couldn’t believe it. One drive through the black shanty towns and she was an authority on what had to be done. They all listened avidly, because she also ordered drinks every two minutes for anyone who cared to join her group.

Skye had tried to take her out, but one of her new friends had pushed him aside . . . pushed him a little too roughly. They were in the black area, and not wanting trouble he went back to the bar.

Skye became more and more wary as the evening went on. He knew he would have Edward to deal with, never mind getting his wife out. He didn’t know who he would be more scared of – Edward or the blacks that surrounded him . . . or were surrounding Harriet.

Encouraged by her friendliness, they were openly touching her, accepting her free drinks. White women didn’t come in their area. Shifty looks passed between dark eyes, her gold necklace, her diamond ring, even better was the thick wad of notes they saw in her wallet . . . any moment now they would make their move and take her outside – and Skye knew he could do nothing to stop them.

Edward Barkley entered the dark, seedy bar. Everybody fell silent as the tension built. Harriet waved across to him and then turned to the men. ‘It’s all right, he’s my husband . . . Edward, I want you to meet some friends of mine.’

He walked straight through the lot of them and took her elbow. ‘Time we went home, you got your bag?’

He turned to Skye, his face was a mask; he gave Skye a small nod of recognition. The men formed a circle, surrounding Harriet and Edward . . . a tight silent group. Still holding her with one hand, he took from his inside jacket pocket a wad of notes, he tossed them to the bar . . . he looked to each man. They moved aside, and the couple walked out of the club. Edward opened the car door and slammed it shut so hard the car rocked. Before starting the engine he leaned over, flipped the glove compartment open and replaced the gun.

She didn’t know what she was more afraid of, the change in her so-called friends, or the violent cold anger from her husband. His hands clenched the wheel as he drove back to their hotel. She could see a muscle twitching in the side of his face . . .

‘I’m sorry, I should have let you know where I was.’

He gave her a look that frightened her.

They went up in the elevator in silence. He unlocked their hotel room, jerked his head for her to go in before him and she moved quickly to the bed. He didn’t switch the light on, but stood in the dark. His voice was unrecognizable, ‘You have a good time, white trash?’ She had never seen him so angry. ‘Well? You going to answer me?’

‘Yes, and I am sorry, I should have called you . . .’

‘You should have called me . . .?’

She moved towards him. ‘Don’t come any nearer, I’ve never hit you but, by Christ, you’re close . . . what the fuck do you think you were doing? Did that prick get you stoned? Well . . .? You better answer me, Harry.’ She didn’t have to, he knew by her silence.

‘So then what? Don’t tell me he fucked you? That would be too much of a joke . . . well, I’m waiting?’

‘Go screw yourself . . .’

He was across the room like lightning, he got her by the hair and threw her down across the bed, his hand came up, and she was as fast as he was, rolling away from him. ‘This is how you treat your black tarts, is it . . .? Beat them up? That is where you pick them up from, isn’t it? Which one do you go for? Tricks? You go with her?’

He had wanted to hit her before, now he could have killed her. Instead he chose his words, knowing he would get to her, hurt her. ‘I go with any woman who won’t freeze up on me, that likes me inside her, wants me inside her, unlike the frigid bitch I’m married to, all right?’

Her dress hit him first, then her right shoe, she stood in front of him and swished her hips. ‘You want to rip my pants off, or shall I suck you off?’

He tore her pants off, and picked her up. ‘You asked for it and you are going to get it.’

She was spreadeagled on the bed, his hands gripping her wrists. Skye had tried to rape her in exactly the same way . . . but now she fought, struggling and kicking with all her strength, but she couldn’t move. Slowly he lowered his head and kissed her, releasing her hands, and pressing her legs open. She tried to move from beneath him and he grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her head back. She screamed, biting at his hand, but he kept on, his hand roughly pushing her legs further and further apart. Slowly she began to move with him, not against him. Her whole body opened to him, and just as she reached out for him, he moved away.

He laughed, standing at the end of the bed. He began to peel off his clothes. He then reached over for the lights.

‘Don’t turn it on, please don’t . . . don’t turn the light on.’

He lay down on her, and with his right hand flicked the switch, light flooded the room. She tried to hide her face, but he turned her roughly to look at him. ‘You are going to know who’s fucking you . . . now look at me . . .’

There were no fragmented dreams. No nightmares . . . they made love over and over again. She came to him, openly, with no fear, and her mind cleared, lifted. She was free.

Skye Duval was, to put it politely, shitting himself. He had half a bottle of vodka beside him to give him the nerve to walk into the hotel. When told to go straight up to Mr Barkley’s suite, he had another large vodka in the bar. He tapped on their door sweating. Edward called that it was open and for him to walk right in. He hesitated, licked his lips, thought that if he was going to take a beating he might as well get it over with.

Edward was sitting up in bed, just the white sheet draped over him. Skye hovered by the door, and Edward smiled, his teeth gleaming in his tanned face, and his hair loose, as if he had just showered. He lit a cigar and tossed the match aside.

‘Siddown . . . drinks on the table, help yourself.’ Skye was even more at a loss, he looked to the balcony. ‘She’s in the tub, okay? I’ve got all these papers for you to sort out; the cables I want sent today and the rest you can do when I’ve gone. I want monies transferred to the five accounts I’ve listed . . .’ As the bathroom door opened, Skye was so nervous he swallowed an ice cube. She was fully dressed and smiled at him. As she crossed to the bed, she knelt close to Edward and kissed him. ‘I’ll get them to collect the cases – you want anything from reception?’ Edward shook his head and she walked out. Pausing at the door, she cocked her head to Skye. ‘Bye Mr Alley Cat.’

Skye flushed, looked nervously at Edward, his foot began twitching . . . still he got no adverse reaction.

‘Okay, that’s about it, there’s four folders, this stack of letters and the rest are cables. We’re leaving, but I’ll contact you in a few days, okay?’

Skye nodded, his foot still twitching . . . she was right . . . compared to Edward he was nothing . . . just a seedy alley cat, because there before him was the king – the cigar clamped in his teeth, the broad powerful shoulders. As he got up from the bed tucking the sheet around him he seemed like a giant. ‘What you waiting for? You want something?’

‘No.’

He towered above Skye as he whispered, ‘You’re getting off light this time my friend and you know it, now get out.’

Skye gathered up the papers, and moved as fast as he could to the bar for another booster. He was shaking, not really believing he had got away with it. She hadn’t told him . . . he just couldn’t understand it . . . all he knew was, whatever the game, Edward always beat him, was always one step ahead of him. He could never be free of him, the power he held over Skye was unbreakable, unless he killed himself, and Skye was too much of a coward to do that.

On their return Dewint was given so many African statues his ‘pigeon loft’ looked like a market stall. He had never seen them both looking so well and happy.

It was even more unpleasant therefore for him to give Harriet the news that her father was dying. She left for Yorkshire the same day.

The following morning Dewint carried in Edward’s breakfast tray. Although he said not a word, he couldn’t help but notice Edward’s appearance – the long hair, the tan so dark he could have been a Red Indian, or one of those hippies from America.

‘I’ll run a bath immediately, sah.’ He behaved as though Edward had been gone only a few hours, and asked no questions.

‘Dewint, contact Miss Henderson at the office, tell her to bring everything that’s been dealt with while I’ve been away. She’s to say nothing, I don’t want anyone to know I’m home yet. I also want back numbers of the newspapers – get copies from the library or whatever . . . And Dewint, the house looks good, just fine.’

In contrast to Dewint’s reaction, Miss Henderson nearly dropped all the files, and her mouth gaped open.

‘Something wrong, Henny old girl?’

She flushed to the roots of her mousy hair and bit her lip, trying to hide her shock by turning away to put the files down. Dewint closed the door as he went out, and Miss Henderson swallowed hard and took another look at Edward.

He looked just like a wild gypsy. He smiled at her, reached out and gripped her chin. ‘What’s going on in that little head, eh?’

‘I’m sorry, but . . . well, excuse me for saying this, but you look like a gypsy, Mr Edward. I don’t mean to be rude, but you do, you really do.’

He tilted his head to one side and smiled again, his teeth whiter than white against his dark skin. ‘I do, do I? Well, well, I look like a gypsy, what a thing to say.’

She looked so nervous that he patted her shoulder. ‘Just joking, I don’t mind – and you never know, Henny, I might just have a drop of the Romany in me . . . Right now, to work. Tell me everything, all the gossip, and don’t miss out a single thing. Let’s start with Alex.’

He listened, wandering around the room in his dressing gown, barefoot. His long hair had been washed and combed back from his face.

Miss Henderson talked for at least two hours, and was tired at the end of her lengthy monologue. Edward didn’t interrupt her once, gave no hint of what he was feeling. Finally, he said, ‘That it? How’s your mother, any better?’

Miss Henderson shook her head, said she was worse, and now it was becoming very difficult to cope.

‘You need a break, Henny. Find a good nursing home, and don’t worry about the cost, that’ll be taken care of. Just go out and have a shopping spree, buy yourself a few things.’

She was going to cry, but he picked up a file and started talking business.

In the early evening Miss Henderson departed, trying to thank him, but he waved her thanks aside, then cupped her face in his enormous hands. ‘I don’t want to lose you – you go on doing too much and I will. So get that old lady of yours sorted out. I’ll be in the office first thing in the morning.’

He kissed her frazzled brow and she hurried out. By the time she reached the gates she was crying openly. She had never met anyone like Edward – she knew a lot of people didn’t like him, but as far as she was concerned he was a god, and she worshipped him.

Edward reached for the phone. He didn’t bother to check the time, he just dialled Alex’s number and waited. After a moment Alex answered.

‘Well, well, buddy boy, while the cat’s away, huh . . . I’m home, see you in the office tomorrow.’

He didn’t wait for Alex to reply, just put the phone down and lay back on the sofa. He wondered what this Barbara woman would be like, and if he would approve of her. He got up and carefully opened a small, mirrored box, carrying it to the table. He had changed from smoking joints, he had found something far more stimulating. He opened a small square of tin foil, picked up a razor-blade and cut two long lines of cocaine. He rolled up a crisp new pound note and snorted both lines. He whistled, sniffing, then licked his finger and removed all traces of the powder from the mirror, rubbing it along his gums. This was something else Skye had introduced him to, and he liked it, liked the way his head cleared, the energy that flooded through him.

Padding across to the record player he selected an album, dusted the record off, and put it on the turntable. Jimi Hendrix – ‘All Along The Watch Tower’. Edward swung his hips and danced, singing along at the top of his voice.

Way up at the top of the house, Dewint cocked an ear to the music and Edward’s loud singing. He closed his eyes. ‘Dear God,’ he thought, ‘not again. Why can’t he play something soft and gentle?’ If it wasn’t this record it was Bob Dylan and his ruddy ‘Tambourine Man’. It appeared that Mr Barkley was swinging along through the sixties with a vengeance.

E
veryone said ‘good morning’ to Alex: the receptionist, the doorman, and the lift man. The lift doors opened as Miss Henderson was walking by with a thick pile of letters.

‘Mr Barkley’s waiting in his office, sir, I’ll bring coffee.’

Alex pursed his lips and let himself into his own office. Putting his briefcase down he took off his raincoat, hung it carefully on a bronze coat stand, checked his hair and tie and then walked along the corridor to his brother’s office.