Transgressions (15 page)

“Be my guest.”

“Good.” She nodded her head, as if searching for further advice. “You know, you could always think of going away for a bit, maybe stay in a hotel for a night or two. It might dilute the intensity.”

“Getting out of the war zone, you mean?” She tried to imagine herself packing a bag and walking out of the house, closing the door on its mischief and mayhem. But the picture wouldn’t stay in focus. Leaving, it seemed, was not an option. But she had known that for a while. “I’m not sure I want to give it the pleasure of my exile.”

The woman smiled. “Well, it was just an idea.” She got up. “I’m afraid I’m due back at the vicarage at seven o’clock,” she said. “Will you be all right on your own?”

“Yes. Fine. Thank you.”

She saw her to the door. Despite the awkwardness of God’s name between them, the atmosphere was not hostile.

“Can I make another suggestion?” she said as she picked up her coat. “I think you should start seeing people again. Make an effort. Get out of the house, if only for an evening. Perhaps you should think about trying to find another boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” How coy the word was, full of teen romance and sucky, smooching kisses. Church magazine stuff. “Don’t tell me you think all this is really some weird manifestation of frustrated sexual energy?”

The laugh was almost a guffaw. “No, I most certainly don’t think that. However, I do think that
it
—whatever it is—could well be exaggerated by you spending so much time on your own. I can’t see that it would hurt to relax for a while. Be kind to yourself, have a good time. Maybe use that breakfast table laid for two.”

The suggestion, coming as it did from her, seemed so outrageous that it made Elizabeth laugh out loud. “I’ll bear it in mind,” she said, as she held out her hand. “I must say this is one conversation I certainly couldn’t imagine having if you’d been a man.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Can I quote you in my newsletter?” She took the outstretched hand and shook it. The grip between the two women was warm and firm. Physical contact, thought Elizabeth—maybe I have missed it more than I realized.

“You do know that I’d be happy to come again if and when you need me?” said the reverend, closing her coat over the dog collar.

“Yes. I know that.”

“Alternatively you could always call me.”

“You sure? Some of this stuff happens late at night,” she said, smiling.

“Anytime. I’m sure. Good-bye, Elizabeth. And good luck.”

B
ack in the kitchen she cleared up the tea things, and unlaid the breakfast table. Spoons, forks, and knives. Clearly her unconscious was in need of a full cooked breakfast. Not her usual style at all. She turned her attention to the floor, washing up the saucepans and putting them in the cupboards. The place returned to normal. She sat and looked at it. Her kitchen. Was it also really her soul? “No more, all right?” she said quietly, looking around. “It’s time to move on.” Then she called Sally.

“Darling, a voice from the grave. How
are
you?”

“I’ve been busy. Wrestling with the devil.”

“Mmmmm. Nice. How was he?”

“You wouldn’t want to know. Listen, Sal—”

“No, you listen. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you because—guess what? A certain desirable man we know has been pestering Patrick for your phone number.”

“Is he scared of the dark?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Tall, floppy hair?”

“That’s the one. You must have scored a hit. So, shall I invite him ’round again?”

“No.”

“Now listen, Lizzie—”

“Just give me his number instead.”

ten

 

G
iven the shit up till now, it had been a good week for Jake. The crackdown at the home end of the market had been sharp enough to get a few of the middle guys squealing about the unfairness of New York police protection not buying what it used to anymore. And by the time they’d finished complaining, they had a good idea who was to blame. And why.

At the same time, Jake’s end was starting to pay off, too. These Eastern European cops may have been living in the Dark Ages, but at least it meant that when it came down to it they knew how to squeeze balls. Put it all together and pretty soon they had themselves the name of a fancy antiques merchant operating off Wenceslas Square: a guy who specialized in selling illegal religious artifacts to tourists who then found themselves having to pay him even more to swing a license to get them out of the country. So far, so acceptable. But he had got greedy and in the last twelve months he’d also started importing stuff from farther east, shipping it overland through routes that were growing white with the powder they were leaving behind. Of course, they could have just stopped every truck at the border, but that wasn’t the message that Jake wanted to give. He was looking for something more subtle. And anyway it was always easier to deal than to bust.

It was what Jake was good at. The guy turned out to be Mr. Urbane: good English, good breeding, good lies. A shrewd man though. Somebody who could see the attraction of a deal where he got to keep one illegal trade rather than losing both. “Don’t worry,” Jake had said to him as he let himself out the back way. “They’ll never know it was you who told us. You have our word.”

But if I were you, buddy, I’d look after my family now, he thought. Don’t wait until death duties take their toll.

Yep. He was feeling pleased with himself. Three weeks down the line and they were going to wonder why they’d messed with him. If he were them he’d make himself an offer he couldn’t refuse soon, just to get him off their backs. Then he could have the pleasure of telling them to go fuck themselves. He was lucky really. His honesty had less to do with scruples than with temperament. Money had never been the high for him, he got off more on the pleasure of the fight, though there were times when he was at his most sour when he wondered if Mirka’s pain might have been relieved by a bigger bank account. He knew enough cops’ wives where it had been. But, then, who’d want to live with them anyway, sharp-looking bitches with faces and butts reconstructed by the surgeon and not enough intelligence or curiosity to ask where all the bonuses came from? That was never Mirka. Not the body work or the lack of brains. If anything she had too much of both. Christ, how he missed her: her wit, her style, the way her foreign accent caressed New York slang, the shine of her smile, the tight curls of her pubes, and those few straggling dark hairs that led up to her navel. There had been times these last six months when the need for her had driven him half crazy with pain. He must have picked up the phone and dialed her number a dozen times before he could stop himself. But he had always put it down again before she answered. He wouldn’t go crawling to anyone. If she wanted him she knew where to find him. Yes, Jake was a man for whom the fight was often sweeter than the victory. But, then, she knew that about him, too.

After the meeting he took the rest of the day off to celebrate, wandering through the old city, sitting out in the squares, enjoying the way the first heat of spring encouraged the women to take off their coats. But his heart wasn’t in it. The body curves all led back to the one he couldn’t have, and that evening he ended up in his local hotel bar drinking more than he should and paying in dollars to smooth his drunken path.

By nine o’clock he could barely get off his chair. When he got back there was a message on the answering machine. The sound of her voice sobered him up faster than a bucket of cold water. The worst thing about it was she didn’t even sound mad anymore.

“Listen, Jake, I had better tell you, just in case you find out from someone else. I am on my way to Prague. I just got a call from the woman who looks after my grandfather. He’s had a heart attack. I am catching an eight
A.M.
flight. I’ll stay at a hotel tonight when I get in, then go south in the morning. I’ll call you when I get there. I . . . I hope things are well with you. I . . . I think of you even though I don’t want to. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Mirka in Prague, Jesus Christ. Mirka here tonight. He looked at his watch: nine twenty-four. New York was six hours behind. The flight was what, eight, eight and a half hours? That meant it would get in at, say, eleven-thirty
P.M.
Twelve? He grabbed a clean shirt from a drawer and applied the aftershave in the cab. She would have seen him looking better, but, then, she would also have seen him looking worse, and at least this way he would see her at all.

He’d calculated without the roadwork on the airport route. Jeez, why did they bother? Even when they’d fixed the roads they weren’t drivable. Fuck it, he should have commandeered a cop car. Then he could have put on the siren.

The plane had been in for forty minutes by the time he got there. He rushed into the arrivals terminal. There were businessmen coming out with New York duty-free bags. No, they hadn’t seen the woman he described. He thought of having her paged, but the line was enormous. He ran around the airport, then went outside.

He spotted her immediately. She was down at the other end of the concourse, where the taxis were parked, a man in a chauffeur’s hat by her side. He knew it was her, could recognize that mane of chestnut hair and the long, clean line of those beautiful legs anywhere. He called her name, but she was too far away to hear. He started pushing his way toward her, but she was already halfway into a big black car, the driver shutting the door.

“Hey, you!” he shouted. The driver turned into the sound of the voice and seemed to see him but walked quickly to the other side of the car and got in. The engine started immediately. He was within twenty feet of the car as it pulled out. He screamed her name, and she must have heard something because he saw her turn in the frame of the back window. He waved frantically and saw in her face that she had recognized him, because she looked suddenly startled, then lifted a hand and leaned over to say something to the driver. But instead of stopping the car moved smoothly away. He ran out into the road to follow but was blasted from behind by a car horn. He jumped out of the way just in time to watch the limo glide down the slip road, out into the central road, and away, accelerating all the time.

Catching his breath he watched it go, and, as he did so, something cold gripped at his bowels. He had seen the car before. Not the same license plate, of course. That one he would remember anywhere, and anyway, he already knew it had been stolen. But the car he
had
seen, with its door half open, offering another woman a lift, one from which she didn’t come back.

A call about an old man with a heart condition. It could have come from anyone. If he hadn’t been drunk he would have seen it from the start. But he still wouldn’t have got to the plane in time. Jesus, not Mirka. Please, God, no, not Mirka.

Finishing the chapter had made her late for the film, but at least it kept her mind off the date and the kitchen. She ran all the way from the underground. He was waiting outside the cinema, tickets in hand, clearly a little pissed off. Her lateness helped her to overcome her shyness and she was still apologizing as the credits rolled.

The movie had a smaller body count than her novel, and none of its corpses were female. In fact, it turned out to be quite a good idea: a swanky little thriller with a plot that snaked its way through sex into murder and a large bank account. In the end the villains won, but their triumph was a good-humored affair, more a victory for charm than a defeat for morality and therefore not to be taken seriously. He had chosen well. It was, she thought later, the perfect film for a first date.

Afterward they went to a Thai restaurant on Fourth Street where the food was great, but the spice warnings not entirely accurate, and one of the chili dishes took the roof of her mouth off. At least it gave them something to laugh about as she gulped down water. He had a good laugh, unselfconscious. It was, she thought at the time, the kind of laugh you could imagine going to bed with, should your imagination that way incline. By the end of the second bottle of wine she was beginning to see how it could.

They haggled over the bill, then agreed to split it. They lived near enough to each other to share a cab home. At the door she invited him in for coffee. He accepted and paid the fare. She let him.

She had trouble with the Chubb. It was, she realized as she fumbled in the dark only the second or third time she had opened it, and never before in the dark. He offered to help, and in the end she let him. “You’re well protected,” he said, as one lock led to another. Neither of them took it any further.

Inside, the house was quiet and well behaved, as it had been for the two days since she had made the date. Maybe it was biding its time, waiting to see how far she would go. She ushered him down to the kitchen. As she unlocked the door she wondered if she shouldn’t make some casual comment about a crazy cat, just in case the floor was littered with dessert spoons and potato peelings, but she couldn’t think of a way to bring it up, and by then the lights were on and the room was revealed as tidy and benign.

“Nice kitchen,” he said and appeared to mean it.

He flicked through the CD shelf as she made the coffee. “How do you put this thing on?” he asked, fiddling with the switch.