The Designer(37)

The pounding resumed, as if to underline the obviousness of that statement. ‘Open! Open, you thieves.’

‘I’m going to open the door,’ Copper said.

Pearl clung to her arms to stop her. ‘Please, no. He’ll kill me.’

‘I don’t care if he kills you,’ Copper said grimly, ‘but I don’t want him to break down my front door.’ She shook Pearl off and unlocked the door.

The man who burst in was large and very angry. ‘Where my money?’ he snarled at Pearl. But Pearl had retreated behind Copper’s back, whimpering; and Copper found herself facing the full wrath of Petrus. The photographs Copper had seen hadn’t shown his face, which was remarkably ugly and suffused with rage. ‘Give me my money!’

‘She doesn’t have your money,’ Copper said.

‘Yes! She steal my money.’ He made to dive around her so that he could grab Pearl, but Pearl dodged to the other side. ‘I kill you, putain.’

Copper suddenly remembered the fat bankroll Pearl had given her. There was probably some truth in Petrus’s accusation. Almost in the same moment, however, she decided that she was damned if she was going to give the money back to him. ‘She doesn’t have your money,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve got it.’

Petrus paused, staring at her warily with yellow eyes like a lion’s. ‘You got it?’

‘Yes. And I’m not giving it back to you. She’s paid her rent with it and it’s mine now.’

‘You crazy,’ he spat. ‘Give me.’

‘I don’t think so. You’re going to leave right now – and if you show your face here again, I’m calling the police.’

He made another grab at Pearl. ‘Call the police. She is a thief.’

Copper, getting angry now, pushed Pearl behind her again. ‘You are worse. You forced her to inject cocaine.’

‘I force her? That putain on her knees every day, begging me for coca. Eh, p’tite? Look what I bring you.’ He held out a little fold of paper. ‘You want this, eh? Come, I give it to you.’

Copper felt Pearl’s hands clutching at her convulsively. ‘Pearl doesn’t want it.’

‘Oh, yes, she want it.’ He grinned. ‘Eh, p’tite?’ He unfolded the paper, showing the white powder it contained. Pearl whimpered. ‘By now you want it very much, eh? Come and get it.’

‘I’ll tell the police everything,’ Copper said, holding tight on to Pearl to stop her from moving. ‘How you got her hooked. The photographs, the beatings – everything.’

‘You think you brave, Mam’selle? You don’t know who I am.’

‘I know you’re a drug dealer and a bully. I’ve faced bigger bullies than you, Monsieur. Now get out.’

He spat at her feet. ‘Va te faire enculer.’

‘Get out of here.’ She knocked the paper envelope out of his hand, scattering the cocaine.

He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. There was a snick and a long, sharp blade was suddenly protruding from his fist. ‘Now you see that I am a serious man. Understand? She come back with me now. She belong to me.’

‘She’s not going anywhere.’ Copper watched the flick knife intently, her heart racing. She had been brought up in Brooklyn and she’d seen the scarred faces – and occasionally, the funerals – that resulted from angry men wielding knives. But she was not going to give Pearl back to this man. ‘She’s staying with me. Put the knife away.’

‘Oui, I put the knife away. In your throat.’ He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. ‘Get out of my way.’

Copper held her ground, her face set. ‘You don’t scare me. Scram, buster. Or I’m calling the cops right now.’

‘You give me the money. And you give me that p’tite putain.’

She was about to retort again when he suddenly struck out at her – not with the knife, but with his other hand. His fist slammed into her forehead, knocking her backwards, stars exploding in front of her eyes. Dazed and hurt, she was aware of Pearl screaming in terror. She struggled to focus on what was happening. As though in a nightmare, she saw that Petrus had seized Pearl by her hair and was dragging her out of the door. In a moment, he would be gone, and so would Pearl. Gone to an ugly fate.

Until that moment, Copper hadn’t allowed any of it to seem real. Pearl’s bruises, her needle-scars, her shivering and vomiting, all of it had been something she preferred not to recognise. She hadn’t quite believed any of it. But now, with her head splitting from the impact of Petrus’s fist, it was real. Without thought, she picked a heavy Lalique ashtray off the table and swung it at the back of Petrus’s head.

She was still stunned and the blow was clumsy. The ashtray glanced off his shaven skull, making him lurch, but not knocking him down. He turned to her with a roar of pain and fury, teeth showing in a snarl. He raised the knife, ready to slash at her face.

But her head was clearing fast. She lifted the ashtray again and with an accuracy honed in a thousand baseball games in the park with her brothers, slammed the glass ashtray between Petrus’s blazing amber eyes. This time there was a solid thud, and this time he went down, blood spouting from his nostrils.

‘Oh Jesus, you’ve killed him,’ Pearl gasped, looking down at the inert figure.