Death be Not Proud (35 page)

Shunting out of my coat and returning to the sitting room to check my mobile, I flicked the phone back onto the menu and saw I had three missed messages. My heart skipped a beat and I fumbled to locate the button to retrieve them, but a soft set of rapid knocks on the door interrupted me.

Sam stood outside, leaning against the opposite wall. He screwed the lid back on the small bottle and tucked it in his pocket.

“Say, Em, but you bought the last loaf of bread; mind if I have some? I'm clean out.”

He wasn't making any move to shift, and he regarded me with half-closed eyes, as if standing straight would have been too much effort. He might have been standing there since
I closed the door on him, for all I knew. I left the door open so as not to be totally rude by not asking him in, and that was a mistake. He followed me.

“Just a couple of slices'll do.”

I made for the kitchen where I had left the bags untouched, banging my hip on the edge of the door frame in my hurry to find the bread and get rid of him. Sam stood outside the narrow kitchen, leaning again, his head slightly hunched forward as he watched me search through the first bag, taking each item out as quickly as I could, in no order and with little care. The stupid bread should have been on top of everything else so it wouldn't get any more squashed than it already was. Sam seemed in no hurry – even his speech had slowed to a drawl, and a faint aroma of alcohol moved with him. Only his fingers twitched on the wooden frame.

“You've made this pretty homey in here, Ginge,” he said, indicating the rest of the apartment with a nod.

“Thanks.”

I started on the second bag and found the bread halfway down; it would have trouble getting in the toaster in the shape it was in.

“Found it!” I said, with evident relief.

“Good for you,” Sam burred. I started to shuffle through the unfamiliar bag drawer, looking for a roll of plastic food bags. “Any chance of a coffee?”

I turned around slowly and looked at him.

“Sam, I don't think that's a great idea, not tonight; I'm hungry and I'm tired. I just want to eat and go to bed.”

I swear there was nothing in my voice or in my look that could have encouraged him.

“Sure you're
tired
.” His lips parted slightly and his eyes became hooded. I pushed past him, thrusting the bread into
his hands as I went to the front door.

“Hey, Freckles, I'll give you a hand – make something to eat.” I turned around to see him in the kitchen. “This looks good.”

He had found the pasta and sauces and now searched a cupboard for a saucepan. With a lurch I had a flashback to Matthew cooking for me and I missed him –
blow
, how I missed him! Sam filled the kettle and switched it on and then looked through a drawer.

“Hey, Ginger, got scissors?”

I shook my head curtly and he shrugged and tore the packet with his teeth, pouring the dried pasta in a rattling flow into the pan.

“So-oo, you just got back, then?” he asked as I folded my arms and looked away. “Huh, shame you skipped Thanksgiving. Great party – I missed you – lots of dancing, music, you know –
slow
dancing. But then, you weren't back, were you?”

He turned back to the hob and poured the boiling water into the pasta pan, drowning the contents. I watched him as I tried to decide how to handle the situation.

“You don't have to do this, Sam; I'm capable of cooking for myself.”

“Sure you are; you do a great line in toast.”

He tested the pasta, then drained it, before pouring it back in the dry pan and emptying the sauce on top and letting it heat through, my intense irritation almost overcome by hunger as the aroma of spices and herbs rose on the head of steam. He thrust a bowl of hot pasta into my hands with a fork balancing precariously on top of it, and followed me through to the sitting room. Accepting
anything
from him wasn't one of my best decisions, and it was only then that I noticed he also had a bowl of food. I would let him eat
and then tell him to go. But he wasn't eating. He charted the movement of my fork to my mouth, and back again.

“Hungry, huh? Yeah. Looking good, though –
look
-ing
go-od
.” He smiled and sat back in the chair opposite me, looking as if he meant to stay. “Fixed anything for the holiday yet, Em? Going anywhere?”

Fishing, by the sound of it,
I thought. I continued to eat, but warily, something badgering away in the back of my mind.

“You know,” he said, staring around the room, “I swear you had a different table here.” He pointed to where the coffee table once stood. I didn't remember him ever seeing it.

“It broke.”

“Oh.” He didn't seem very interested. “So, Christmas…” He forked some pasta into his mouth, chewing slowly, monitoring me all the time. I put my bowl down on the arm of the chair.

“What about you, Sam – what will you do? Will you be with family?”

My thoughts drifted to being with the Lynes at Christmas: what it would be like as a stranger among them, whether – in the circumstances – they could accept me. Then I wondered how Matthew fared with Ellen, how serious a crisis it might be, and when he would be back. Sam had been talking.

“… That sort of thing. You know, got a lot of work on, might visit the kids, nothing fixed in stone. Could do with some company, though; gets pretty lonely here when there's no one about. I've missed you, Freckles, missed you loads. How about we give it another go? Reckon we could make it work if we try; we get on OK.”

I hadn't been listening until that point. My head shot up and I stared directly at him.

“Sam, that's not possible; please don't ask me.”

He stopped eating. “Why not?”

I stood abruptly and took my bowl through to the kitchen and turned around to find him behind me.

“Why not, Em?” he repeated, but this time with a tainted smile. I edged around him and into the open space of the sitting room.

“Time to go, Sam –
now
, please,” I said firmly and walked briskly to the door, opening it wide for him. He drifted over.

“Elena said you were back. Left in a hurry, didn't you? Came to see you after that misunderstanding that day – at lunch, with your Mom and Dad, remember? Yeah, sure you do. But you weren't here. Matias Lidström was, though. Place in a bit of a mess – said you'd had an accident, or something. Not very forthcoming. Looked like a bust-up to me.”

He waited for me to fill in the gaps, but he would have to wait for an eternity, because that was what it would take before I would be prepared to tell him anything that happened between Matthew and me that day. He ran an idle finger over the surface of the lamp table by the door, and inspected the faint film of dust left in a tide-mark on its tip.

“You never did say what'd happened to Lynes. Haven't seen much of him recently; moved on to pastures new, has he? Told you he would, though, didn't I?” He stood too close, his hand now on the door as if he were about to leave. “You know,” he hummed, “you are so beautiful…” I hadn't seen his other hand until he put it palm down and hot against my collarbone, his fingers playing with the chain around my neck. I could smell the booze on his breath. This I didn't need.

“Get off,” I said, curtly, knocking his hand out of the way; “I'm not interested.”

His face went blank; only his sour brown orbs spoke.

“Sure, sure.”

He turned to leave but as I started to close the door on him, I suddenly remembered what had been plucking at my mind.

“Did you follow me to the store?” I accused. He turned, shrugged, and fingered the stubble on his chin, his gaze averted, shifting. He didn't say he had, but he didn't deny it either. I felt more disgusted than frightened. “That's sick – you're sick, Sam. I didn't think you'd resort to
that
. Get out!”

I screwed my hands into balls and flexed my fingers out behind my back, stiffening them into weapons. He didn't say anything but held up a finger, as if something had been bothering him and he was searching for an answer.

“Just one thing, Ginger.” He smiled with a frown. “You didn't say why not.” He made no move towards me and I hesitated, not sure what he meant. “Well?”

I viewed him suspiciously.

“I… I don't know what you're talking about.”

Fleetingly, he looked more doleful than anything else.

“You and me – us – why not?”

I stammered the only reply I could give him.

“I… I don't love you, Sam.”

“Why not?”

I thought wildly. “I don't know – it's hard to explain. You're… you're like a black hole, and sometimes it feels as if you're dragging me into it. You're suffocating, Sam. I can't see anything beyond you – beyond what
you
want.” He blinked. “I really liked you when we met – there's lots to like about you, but you overwhelm me…” I ran out of words to explain how I felt and still he stood there, and I could see that he didn't understand. His mouth was pulled down, curdling his smile.

“Are you're still hooked on Lynes? Is that it? Or is it because I'm older than he is… what?”

An involuntary laugh – half alarm, half disbelief – broke from my lips.

“Yes, I'm in love with Matthew, but age has nothing to do with it.”

Evidently, he hadn't registered what I'd said.

“Is it because he's better looking than me? Or because I've been married? I'm struggling to understand here, Em. Help me out, and don't tell me it's the size of his
intellect
.”

He had been standing side-on, so I hadn't felt as threatened, but now he faced me again with the gap closed between us. Cold sweat itched my neck and the chain rubbed uncomfortably. Sam's breathing increased; he licked his dry lips and I swallowed nervously, wondering where he thought this was going. I managed to back away from him, but it only drew him further into the room.

“Looks have nothing to do with it. I didn't like that you've been married before, it's true, but it's not that either. You can't help who you are, or who I am…”

“Or who Lynes is,” he sneered.

“No – nor who he is. It's just something you can't make happen. Even if I hadn't met Matthew, I don't think I could have gone out with you…”

“Yeah,” he snorted, “but it would've helped, babe. You and me could have had
something
.” He lowered over me and I hadn't realized before just how big he was, his frame heavier than Matthew's, thickset, built-up, worked on.

“Sam, I'm sorry. It's like when you tell me I'm beautiful, but I don't believe you – it's what you think I want to hear. I'm all ‘Freckles' and ‘Ginger' to you, but I'm not – I'm
Emma
. Matthew makes me feel like
me
; he doesn't have to tell me I'm beautiful.”

“But you
are
beautiful, Em; didn't he ever tell you that?”

I started to reply, then decided that I didn't want to get into a dissection of what Matthew had or hadn't said: it was none of Sam's business. His mouth twisted, distorting his face into an ugly, triumphant mask.

“He hasn't, has he? Been holding out on you? I said you weren't the only one –
Lynes' Kittens
– always on the make for a new little
pussy
.”

I fixed him with a look of iron. “That's not the point; you're missing the
point
, Sam. Listen, will you? What I wanted to say is that he doesn't need to
tell
me I'm beautiful, because that's how he always makes me
feel
. But you keep telling me as if… as if you are trying to convince me – or yourself.”

Anger and frustration replaced the victory in his face.

“You
bitch
!”

I didn't see his hand until he hit me. He used the whole of his palm across the side of my face and I tasted the blood from my mouth almost immediately. I put my hand to my lip and looked at the bright-red stain on my fingers and then up at him, in shock. Sam's shoulders hung forward belligerently, fascinated by the sight of my blood. My face stung from the force of the blow and anger ripped through me, making me reckless. Sam reached out and I didn't know if he was trying to touch me or hit me or what, but I lashed out with the only weapons I had against his beefed-up body – my nails tearing his hand. He yelped in pain, bloodshot eyes darkening, and he drew his torn fist to his mouth, then raised it higher. This time I did not doubt his intent. I shied away.

“
Don't touch her!
”

It was a voice used to being obeyed. Sam swung round, his fist suspended, ready to strike, and his face warped in a malevolent sneer.

“Aw – look, honey, it's the cavalry.”

“Matthew!” I gasped, his name blurred by my lip as it rapidly swelled. He stood by the open door, his hands already tightly compressed, unblinking and poised. The satisfied look on Sam's face made it clear that he welcomed this unforeseen development. Matthew didn't take his eyes off him as he held out his hand to me.

“Come here, Emma. He won't stop you.”

I edged away from Sam but, the focus of his derision now wholly fixed on Matthew, he made no move to prevent me from reaching the protective arc of his arm. Matthew scanned the damage to my face, his eyes hardening as he took in my bee-stung lip and scarlet skin, and looked back at Sam, whose shoulders were squared and ready for a fight. Matthew's voice was quiet – too quiet, too calm.

“You shouldn't have done that, Sam; you shouldn't have hurt her.”

A darker, more deadly quality emanated from him, as unfamiliar to me as it should have been to Sam. This was something else entirely, but Sam missed the warning signs.