Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(105)

‘An túr,’ she says. The tower. She doesn’t look up at me. Finally, she raises her martyr’s eyes, her expression portentous, and speaks.

‘Beware the woman who is wounded, beautiful and ruthless. She has soot and death in her mouth.’

My mouth opens with horror at her terrible words.

Her black eyes flash, her voice is a shade fainter. ‘You can still pray to the Madonna for a miracle. The abyss may not come to pass.’ She gathers the cards with a snap. ‘Perhaps.’





There is a sign on the door that can’t be missed.

It reads:

Enter but at your own risk.

—Whodini





EIGHTEEN


Lily

That morning Jake gets up early. There is something he must do at the office.

‘Unimportant, but necessary,’ he says when I ask him what.

It is too early for me to eat, but I sit and watch him wolf down three slices of toast thickly spread with butter and homemade marmalade that his mother bottles for him. I walk him to the front door, snake my arms around his neck and stand on tiptoe to kiss him and he lifts me up.

‘I’ll crumple your suit,’ I whisper in his ear.

‘Wrap your legs around me, woman,’ he growls.

I laugh and wrap my legs around his hips.

‘Have I told you today how beautiful you are?’

I tilt my head and pretend to think. ‘Let me see. Yes. Yes, you have.’

He looks into my eyes seriously. ‘You’re beautiful, Lily. Truly beautiful.’

‘Is everything OK?’ I ask him.

He smiles softly. ‘Yes, everything is just the way it should be.’

We kiss gently and then he leaves me.

I stand for a moment looking at the door. A small cold leaf of worry clings to my back. Is he doing something dangerous today? I go back to bed and lie down for a while, thinking. Why has he not told me where he is going?

By nine thirty a.m. I have showered, dressed and am closing the front door behind me. I walk to the bus stand down the road, and I sit on one of the red plastic seats and wait for the bus. It comes at nine fifty-two a.m.

I climb aboard, pay the bus driver, and take a seat upstairs. The bus takes me all the way to Leicester Square. I get off and walk up to Piccadilly Circus. It is full of tourists and I sit on the stone steps under the statue and look at them, with their maps and their cameras and their great enthusiasm.

Afterwards, I walk down Regent Street ambling in and out of shops. I try on a hat. When I look in the mirror I find my eyes huge and frightened. I turn away quickly. I flick through the hangers without real interest and my behavior earns me the attention of a security guard, who starts following me around. I leave that shop quickly.


I enter a shoe shop and after trying on about ten pairs I buy a pair. I am outside the shop when I realize I don’t even know what color the shoes are. By now it is one forty-five p.m. I go into a small café and order a salmon and cucumber sandwich, but I am unable to finish it. I pay my bill and set off toward the Embankment Bridge.

As I walk across the bridge I start to feel the first frisson of nervousness. It settles like lead in the pit of my stomach. I have blocked it out all this time, but the moment is here. It is time. I train my eyes not on the Tate Modern, but on St Paul’s Cathedral in the background. Eventually I come upon the giant black insect creature made of metal. Creepy and perfectly War of the Worlds.

I go through the front door of the Tate Modern and up the stairs. Down the corridor there is an exhibition by Marlene Dumas that I would like to see but I don’t go in there. Instead I pass into one of the smaller rooms where a man is sitting on a bench contemplating a collage called ‘Pandora’ by a new artist, Miranda Johnson.

The colors are bright and bold, but there is no difference between this painting and Picasso’s ‘Weeping Woman’. Both are violent and raw with suffering. To enter the painting is to enter pain. I let my eyes wander over it. There is an eye in the collage, a full pair of bright pink lips, and a flower. There are also words like bitch, suck, liar, arsehole, abuse, and on the very top, cursive writing that says, You are invited…

I walk toward the painting, my soul aching.

The man on the bench speaks. ‘She shouldn’t have opened the box.’

I don’t look at him. I simply sit next to him, but not close enough to touch. There are six inches between us. I feel frozen inside. I think of my brother lying on the floor with the needle sticking out of his arm. And I am suddenly caught by his pain, the pain of the painting, my pain. I can do this. Of course I can do this.

I look at the painting and all I can see is the word ‘Bitch’.

‘You called for a meeting,’ the man says without looking at me.

‘Yes.’

He turns his head briefly to look at me. I turn my head quickly to meet his gaze. I want to look into his eyes. I want to stand again on firm ground. His eyes are dark and expressionless. Exactly the way I remember them. I stare at him. He is first to look away.

‘Well?’

‘There is something big happening on the sixteenth,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know yet. But something is coming in through Dover.’

‘Good work, but we won’t act on this one. It will compromise you. We’ll let this one go. You have something far more important to do.’