The Talisman (69 page)

Edward’s increasingly erratic behaviour was not confined to the office. The manor became an open house to dropouts, welcomed by Harriet, who always surrounded herself with groups of actors and musicians. Edward took little interest, his main occupation of late was his night club. He still managed to hold the reins of Banks, being the ninety per cent shareholder, and he was adamant that he would not lose one of his lucrative assets. They were beneficial to him, not just financially.

Edward tried every ‘hit’ he had used in the past, but to no avail. Clubs were being closed down all over London, and the exclusive Banks became a government priority when it was noted that Edward had returned to London with the notorious George Raft. Mr Raft, it appeared, had Mafia connections. Edward flaunted Raft at the club – flash-bulbs popped as he sat, cigar clenched in his teeth, with his arm around his new friend’s shoulders. Next day, the photograph accompanied the headline ‘Tycoon’s brother involved with Mafia.’

Alex drove to Edward’s house. He was trying to control his anger. Dewint was pushed out of the way as Alex passed him. ‘Edward! Edwaaaard!’

Edward appeared at the top of the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Hi, man, something up?’

‘Don’t you play silly buggers with me, Edward. What the hell do you think you’re doing? You seen the papers?’

‘No – in them, am I? Well, that makes a change – I mean, you’re the Barkley Company, according to the press. Tycoon’s brother, what?’

Dewint heard them quarrelling at the tops of their voices. He turned away a car-load of guests, and still the brothers argued.

‘The Home Office is going to bar George Raft from re-entering the country, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me he had a share in the club, why? And why, for Chrissake, are you getting mixed up with these guys? You don’t need them, you don’t even need the club. Just as we are doing so well, the last thing I want is the company name besmirched with this kind of press . . .’

Edward looked at Alex, his face a mask, and when he spoke his voice was so calm that it sent chills through Alex. ‘How about headlines like “Barkley tycoon uncovered – ex-con Alex Stubbs”? You stupid bastard, you know Ming threatened to sell our story? You with all your fucking press agents, your social-climbing wife – well let me tell you, your bloody high-powered friends would drop you like dog shit . . .’

Alex paled, so shaken he had to sit down.

‘It’s all right, it’s all right, I doubt if she wants her “true life” history plastered across the papers either. But why didn’t you listen to me, I warned you about her . . .’

Alex closed his eyes. ‘Oh, Christ . . .’ He helped himself to a drink and sat down again.

Edward put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Look, don’t panic about the club, it’ll blow over, but I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse – three-quarters of a million for a thirty per cent share in Banks. In return I get a share of a casino in Nevada – it would have been madness to turn it down. When are you going to learn, your big brother has the Midas touch? Listen to me, don’t try to do me in, ride with me. You’re my brother, I’d never do anything to harm you, you know that . . . Look at me . . . you ever dream you could be where you are now? Well, did you? But never forget where we came from and keep your mouth shut tight . . . and if you ever feel like gabbing, take a look at your medallion, that way you’ll always remember.’

Alex asked if Edward still wanted to keep the club open, knowing it was being investigated by the Home Office.

‘They won’t find anything wrong, Alex. And besides, I have my own contacts in the Home Office, so why don’t you just back off, you aren’t involved.’

Without touching his drink, Alex walked out. Apparently unconcerned, Edward sat with his feet up on the sofa, whistling. He would find himself a new partner, one person, someone high up in the City, and they would run the club, he would show Alex. He cut and snorted more cocaine, he was doing a line on the hour almost every hour now.

Later, he put it down to the cocaine, and the fact that he was still jet lagged. He always had to have a reason, but however he fooled himself, there could be no excuse for his flagrant disregard of everything the doctors had said about Harriet.

The argument began over dinner. She was dressed in a strange forties’ dress with padded shoulders. He looked her up and down. ‘Do you go out of your way to make yourself unattractive? Where in God’s name did you get that dress?’

‘My mother, if you must know.’

‘Well I’d give it back.’

‘That would be rather difficult . . . don’t you want to know why?’

‘I’m sure you will have some amusing elaborate story . . . so tell me!’

‘She died three weeks ago . . .’

‘I’m sorry, you should have told me.’

‘How? I never know where the hell you are . . . what made it worse, I couldn’t even get to her funeral. The play . . . remember the play I was in, just another thing in my life you missed.’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry – what more do you want me to say? Well?’

‘Nothing . . .’

‘Are you going into any more of these theatrical ventures?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Not quite, I do happen to be paying for them, and if you want my opinion I think they’re conning you. I had a look at your accounts . . . and like I said you’ve shelled out a lot of cash.’

‘Shelled? . . . Christ you sometimes sound so vulgar . . . where did you pick that one up from, little slit eyes? Dingley ding Ming?’

He bit the end of his cigar and spat it out. She drummed her fingers on the table spoiling for a fight.

‘I was just trying to fathom out how much longer this fad of yours was going to last . . . that’s all, no need to get uptight.’

‘Fad? . . . the theatre is not a fad. I happen to like it, more than that I love it, the warmth and the friendship I get from the people associated with it . . .’

He interrupted her, ‘How long do you think this so-called warmth would last if your cash dried up? You should put it to the test . . . couple of months you’d be left high and dry, sweetheart.’

She jumped up shouting, ‘You are the one that’s high; you should look at yourself – you’re stoned out of your mind most of the time, and don’t call me sweetheart . . . save it for your tarts.’

Dewint was about to enter the dining room with a large trifle, but stepped aside as she rushed out of the room. She was quickly followed by Edward, and by the look on his face there was more than a storm brewing. He took himself and his trifle back into the safety of the kitchen. They had had rows, and he was used to them, but this one he had felt coming for quite a while.

Edward cornered her at the top of the stairs. ‘You think this is any place for a man to come home to? All those queens poncing around, you got up like something from the ark? Well do you? When will you try learning the part of a wife for a change?’

She kicked out at him. ‘When you play the part of a husband, you egotistical bastard, that’s when . . .’

‘You saying I’m not? That what you’re saying? Well you tell me who picks up the pieces? I got the leftovers, didn’t I? Well didn’t I? And you know who I’m talking about.’

‘No, I don’t . . . you’re so stoned it’s difficult to follow your train of thought, now let me past . . . get out of my way.’

He leaned both hands over her so she was trapped beneath him. ‘I’m referring to the French man, Pierre Rochal . . . go on, run to your hiding hole, go on . . .’

She edged past him, and he sneered. ‘He didn’t put up much of a fight, did he? Know why? Because he knew all about you, guy couldn’t wait to get shot of you . . .’

Harriet was almost at the top of the stairs, she looked back at him. ‘You were the one that ran after me, and if you’ve got to rake up that far back, then you really are pitiful.’

‘Yeah, you said it . . . but if I’d known about the baby, maybe I wouldn’t have come after you. I was the one who wanted sons remember? Me!’

He began to move up the stairs. ‘It was his baby you lost, not mine, but I’ve had the shit thrown at me. Surprised? You didn’t think I knew about it, did you? Don’t you tell me about being a good husband, you got the better side of the bargain.’

He waited for her to come back at him, ready to continue the fight. Like a boxer coming in for the kill, knowing the punch had found its mark, he waited . . . his opponent, his wife reached down to the ache inside her. The pain that had haunted her, that she had denied him, was released. Her face crimson with anguished rage she screamed . . . ‘It was your son, you bastard.’

The fight turned tables, a boxer when hurt can be more dangerous . . . more vicious because he knows it’s the last chance . . . Harriet took it, took it and gave punch after punch to his heart. ‘He was perfect, Edward, perfect. Imagine what it felt like to hold his cold body in my arms – whisper his name, beg for his lungs to move . . . what was his name, can you think what I would have called your son, can that putrid, festering mind think . . . tell me his name?’

His mind reeled, he pressed his back against the wall. She came closer, closer, now she moved to stand in front of him, her arms stretching either side of him as she looked into his face. She whispered the name he already knew . . .

‘Freedom . . . I called him Freedom.’

Slowly he moved his arms around her as her body caved in. He cried for what he had done, he cried for his son . . . and at long last they wept together for their loss. Later they slept in each other’s arms, afraid to let go . . . drained . . . bound to each other as they had always been. Edward woke and felt for her body, but she was gone. He prayed he would be wrong, but he found her in the studio. This time, though, she allowed him to drive her to the doctor.

It was almost ten o’clock when Edward returned. Dewint made him fresh coffee and took it into the lounge. Edward stood staring into the fire, he turned a sheepish, sad face.

‘How is she, sir?’

‘Not too good, may be away for some time . . . I’ll be at the club if anyone wants me.’

Edward began his drinking again, staying out until the early hours of the morning. Dewint didn’t serve his breakfast often until noon. He always tapped nervously . . . afraid to wake him because he could have such terrible moods. This morning he was awake, and Dewint carried in his tray.

‘Mrs Barkley’s downstairs, sah . . . Mrs Barbara Barkley.’

Edward smiled, began to eat. ‘Show her up, and bring a bottle of champagne.’ Barbara walked in and tossed her mink on the bed. She noticed he was wearing only his pyjama bottoms, and the gold medallion around his neck.

‘Well, you proud of yourself? Alex says he’s tried to reason with you, now it’s my turn. He says you’ve been offered a lot of money for a percentage of the club. Well, I’ll match it if you back off, get rid of it.’

Dewint entered with the champagne and popped the cork, while Edward lay back, arms behind his head. Barbara waited until Dewint had gone then she sat down a good distance away. ‘Annabelle’s just married, everything is good right now, and Alex can’t afford to lose out on this thing he’s got going. Why do you do it, Edward? Why?’

Edward sipped his champagne and patted the bed for her to come and sit close. ‘Maybe I’m bored, maybe I’ve been through Alex’s trip and out the other side. I don’t care any more, I don’t give a fuck what the right people think of me, it doesn’t matter. You know, the only thing that does is money – need I say more? Look where it got you.’

Barbara threw the glass of champagne straight at his head. It splashed down the pillow and Edward laughed. ‘Do you really care what those stuffed shirts think? Who gives a shit? You got one life, Barbara, and I’ve spent most of mine licking other men’s fucking boots . . . Why don’t you get your clothes off and get into bed with me.’

Barbara slapped him and he caught her wrist. ‘Temper, temper . . . only teasing. But you can rest easy, I’ll be a good boy, no more headlines, all right? I was just bored, that’s all, don’t you ever get bored?’

He watched her sigh and pour herself another drink.

‘Now you’ve met the so-called English aristocrats, you telling me you really get on with those wankers?’

Barbara, walking to the window, asked him to refrain from speaking to her like a tart.

‘Ohhh, I’m sorry, I’ll mind my p’s and q’s, won’t use any naughty words in front of Her Ladyship. Why don’t you be honest, honey child, you’re as pissed off as I am . . .’

Barbara picked up her mink coat, slipped it round her shoulders. ‘I happen to like my life. Just because you have nothing worthwhile in yours, don’t think everyone feels the same way.’

She couldn’t have said anything worse. Edward threw back the bedclothes and stood, barring her exit. She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her and she tried to force him away. He held on, and she fought, kicked at him and scratched him, grabbed his hair. The leather thing holding it snapped, and his hair fell loose, down to his shoulders. Barbara resisted by letting her body go limp. ‘Please don’t, let me go, Edward. Don’t do this to me, please.’

He opened his arms, released her, and then cupped her face in his hands, gently. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry . . . go home to him, go home like a good girl.’

He moved back to the bed and sprang up on it, then flopped down like a child. The door closed and he glanced up; she was leaning against it. She began to unbutton her blouse, kicked off her shoes, and Edward, propped on one elbow, watched her. ‘You are a rare beauty, Barbara, you know that? Untie your hair.’

She sat on the edge of the bed and allowed him to toss her hairpins aside one by one . . . He eased her blouse away and with one finger unhooked her bra, kissing her shoulders, her back, and she leaned against him . . . He pulled her back until she lay across the bed, and he ran his hands through her hair. He began to ease her skirt off, and she made no move to either stop him or help him.