Amberlough(51)

She put a handful of cigarettes in the pocket of the dressing gown, and one between her lips. There was a table lighter tucked at the back of the bar. She pushed it down and pulled the wick out, burning. Once she’d lit the straight and drawn a breath, she said, “So, you work. Doing what?”

There was a long silence. She went to the doorway and leaned against the frame, watching him. She took another drag on her cigarette. The orange spark flared with her breath.

“Put another record on,” he said.

“What’s your pleasure?”

He shrugged, and adjusted his blanket. Kneeling behind the sofa, she started to shuffle through the collection stacked beneath the gramophone. He spoke while she was still sorting, so she couldn’t see his face.

“Let’s just say it’s the kind of thing I can’t tell you much about,” he said. “Unless you like the idea of a quick bullet with your head in a bag.”

She was proud she only fumbled with the records, instead of dropping them. Even prouder when she kept her voice steady. “Sounds a treat.”

That startled a noise out of him, but she couldn’t tell if it was mirth or bitterness. “How about that music?”

Whatever she picked, she didn’t read the name. It surprised her when the needle struck the grooves and she recognized the song. Marcel Langhorn’s “Don’t Let the Sun Rise.” She’d worn her own copy clean through.

“Did you bring me a straight?” he asked when she settled on the sofa. In answer, she drew one from her pocket and put it between his lips.

“It was all right at the start,” he said, talking around the cigarette. “The work, I mean. Especially when my other option was being sent down. My last year at university, too.”

“I’d ask why, but … a piece like you?” She leaned in for him to light from her. Their foreheads touched, and he closed his eyes as he inhaled. “I think I know. Caused a little trouble with some teachers, didja?”

He smiled tight, like it hurt him. “A little. Luckily, my father had enough connections that the family could pack me off to serve in a foreign country. The gossip died down. I was gone so long I think people forgot the DePauls had a second child.”

Silence settled over him, after that. Ash crept up his cigarette. When he finally tapped it clean, he paused with one hand hanging over the ashtray. A chance flutter of his breath made the scar on his belly flash silver in the gloom. Ghosting her hand down the plane of his stomach, Cordelia asked, “What happened?”

“They barely pulled me home in time for the doctors to help.”

“Help what?”

Smoke curled in twin columns from his nose. “Peritonitis. I was beaten so badly I … you’ve never felt anything like it.”

Her sister had died like that. Took a solid whack from her man when he had his work boots on. It had taken days for her to go.

“I … the work I used to do…” Cyril put a hand over his mouth, pressing his thumb into the muscle of his jaw. “Lady’s name, Cordelia, I shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“When I was younger,” he said, ignoring her, “it seemed so exciting. Everything was a game, and ruthlessness had a kind of … romantic appeal.” Then, he looked up, and his eyes widened, gleaming like mercury. “I’m sorry. You’re from the Mew. I wasn’t thinking.”

She licked her teeth, tasting good tobacco and clean gin. “Nah. I ain’t pinned. We’re all idiots when we’re kids. Only difference is, I stopped being a kid a lot sooner than you.”

The shame was plain on his face, and satisfying.

“You’re still in it,” she said. “Right? The game. And now you’re dragging me along.”

“That’s the thing: I was wrong. It’s not a game. And I don’t want to drag you.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I want … I want you to work with me.”

“Then you oughta tell me what I’m doing,” she said. “At least as far as I need to know. I ain’t keen on following blind.”

He drew in a deep lungful of smoke. It came out in a cloud when he spoke, hiding his expression. “Right now, you know enough.”

“And if that changes? If I need to know more?”

“Let’s just hope you won’t.” He waved the screen of smoke from his face. She expected his expression to be calculating, but all she saw was fear.





CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Cordelia came to Aristide at the beginning of the interval, just after Tito dropped his payload of cards and bribery.

“I got your note,” she said, falling across his chaise longue as gracefully as a silk ribbon in a breeze. “Cyril’s here; I can’t spend long with you.”

Aristide’s grip tightened on the thick stack of cards Tito had left him. Cyril’s was not among them. He bit the inside of his cheek. That’s the way you want it, fool.

He took his coat from its hook and reached into an inner pocket. Removing a package wrapped in brown paper, he offered it to her. “Take that.”

She weighed it in her hand, her expression considering. “There’s a lot here.”

He said nothing. It was true.