The Hiding Place(28)
“Thirty? But that’s way more—”
“Next month he’ll want forty. You know how this works.”
I do. I nod. “I have a plan.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s a man here. He wants me to leave the village. Badly.”
“This wouldn’t be the same man who got those thugs to beat you up tonight.”
“Yes.”
“And now he’s going to hand you a big wad of cash?”
“Yes.”
“And why is he going to have this change of heart?”
Because of what happened. Because of what he did. Because, as he said himself, he has a nice life here, and I could screw it all up, just like that.
“He owes me,” I say. “And he really doesn’t want me stirring up trouble for him.”
“Interesting. Who is this man?”
“A councillor and successful businessman.”
She signals to turn into the village. “I like a public figure. There are just so many ways to fuck up their lives, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never given it that much thought.”
“Oh, you should. They’re the easiest ones to hurt. The ones with the most to lose.”
“In that case, I should be unbreakable.”
“Well, no one is that. But physical pain is the easiest to recover from.”
Right now, just about every part of my body would beg to disagree, but I don’t reply. Talking about pain with Gloria is a bad idea. Like taking a poacher on safari.
We drive along in silence for a while. She sighs. “I like you, Joe—”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“I sense a hint of sarcasm.”
“You crippled me.”
“Actually, I saved you from being a cripple.” She pulls up outside the cottage and yanks on the handbrake. “The Fatman wanted me to ruin your good leg.”
She turns and rests a hand gently on my thigh. “Luckily for you, being a daft little woman from Manchester, I got a bit confused.”
I stare at her. “You want me to thank you?”
She smiles again. It would be a nice smile, if it made it anywhere near her dead blue eyes. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, Gloria’s reveal nothing but empty rooms covered in blood-spattered sheets.
She runs her hand down my thigh to my knee. And then she squeezes, hard. For a tiny woman, she has a powerful grip. In other circumstances this might be a good thing. Right now, all my breath is sucked out of my diaphragm. I’m in too much pain to even scream. Just when I think I might pass out, she releases me. I gasp and fall back in my seat.
“I don’t want you to thank me. I want you to get me that thirty grand, because next time I won’t be so fucking forgiving.”
12
“Don’t tell me,” Beth says. “I should see the steamroller?”
I try to raise an eyebrow. It hurts. Just about everything hurts this morning. The only consolation is that it makes the pain in my leg bearable by comparison.
“Very funny.” I sit down at the cafeteria table next to her. “Excuse me if I don’t laugh, but I don’t want to rupture anything.”
She regards me with a smidge more compassion. Either that or she has something stuck in her throat. “What happened?”
“I fell down the stairs.”
“Really?”
“They’re very steep stairs.”
“Right.”
“Easy to trip.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s almost like you don’t believe me?”
She shrugs. “I just wondered if you’d managed to piss someone else off.”
“You have a very low opinion of me.”
“No. I just have a very high opinion of your ability to be annoying.”
I chuckle. Predictably, it hurts.
“Well,” she says, “at least you can laugh about it.”
“Barely.”
Her face softens. “Seriously, are you okay? If there’s anything you want to talk about…”
Before I can respond, I catch a whiff of halitosis mixed with bad aftershave. I cough and push my sandwich to one side. To be fair, I wasn’t very hungry anyway.
“Joey, man.”
I thought I couldn’t hate him any more, but the addition of an “ey” on the end of my name has just made it possible.
Simon drags out a chair and sits down. Today he wears a Magic Roundabout T-shirt over maroon cords. Maroon.
“Wow, what happened to your face, man? Or should I see the other guy?”
“He has really badly bruised knuckles,” Beth quips.
Simon gives a feeble laugh. I sense he doesn’t really like women who are smart or funny. Makes him feel inferior. Rightly so. And actually, my face got off lightly. Just a bruised eye and a cut lip.
“I fell down the stairs,” I say.
“Really?” He shakes his head. “I thought it might have something to do with Stephen Hurst.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“I saw you two talking in the pub last night.”
“You were there?”