One Way or Another: A Novel (26 page)

He swung off the motorway at the next exit, made a turn and got back on in the other direction. It was another half hour before he pulled again into the stunted-treed-driveway of Marshmallows.

Evening darkened the sky and the white birds hulked over their nests, silent for once. There was not a single sound to be heard, other than Morrie’s own feet on the gravel as he strode toward the steps, then lifted the iron dragon’s head that acted as a door knocker. It was heavy and, even from where he was standing, he could hear the sound booming through the house. He waited a minute but there was no answer. He took a step back, glanced at the house, there was no light in any window. Could no one be working there? Was no one looking after this large property, filled with valuables? There had at least to be a guard.

He lifted the heavy knocker again, rapped it this time, then again, harder; stood, hands in pockets, waiting for someone to answer. No one did. Shit. He was stuck. He had to have that folder, all his notes, all his contacts were in it; he could not work tomorrow without it. He grabbed the door handle and gave it a vicious twist. To his astonishment it turned easily.

He stood for a minute, wondering who might have left this house and all its valuables open to any passerby who, like him, might just try the door. Why did Ahmet not have guards? Why had Martha not arranged for that?

It was getting darker now as night approached. He opened the door, praying an alarm would not go off and leave him stranded, waiting for the police to arrive and arrest him. Of course he could talk his way out of that but all he wanted right now was to get back to Brixton, head for the pub and his mates and that oh so welcome pint, and fuck all this Marshmallows stuff. Fuck these marshes where tiny white lights now flickered, like ghost lanterns, on then off again, randomly, eerily.

This place was creepy by day; at night it could really get to you. He told himself he’d just get his file and get out of there, fuck the cops, and Ahmet and his Marshmallows. He could keep it. Well, not exactly, and he had to get his file so he could keep up with the work on the yacht, the party, the planned ball. All his freakin’ life was in that file.

He stepped inside, walked quickly to the staircase. His file was not there. He stood for a moment, stunned. He had left it there, he was sure of it. Where else could he have put it? He had not so much as set foot upstairs; the only other place was the kitchen.

Reluctantly, he walked the length of the hallway to the very back, where the kitchen was located. He pushed open the door, and took a step inside before he saw her. Mehitabel. Lit by a single light bulb over the counter.

Holding a tray with a bowl of soup, a crust of baguette, a linen napkin, utensils, and a glass of red wine. He might have thought she was going to have a simple supper alone except she was wearing a slinky long green satin evening dress and more jewels than he had ever seen on a woman before. She looked, he thought, absolutely stunning. Or at least she would have, had she not been staring so malevolently at him he actually felt frightened of her.

“Well?” she asked, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Er, oh, well, I mean, it’s me, Morrie, the decorator, I left my contact book, my notes. On the … well I thought on the stairs.”

“They are on the table.”

Her eyes moved to where they were. He followed her gaze, transfixed, went and retrieved them, turned abruptly, thanked her and quickly walked to the door. He felt her eyes on him all the way, boring into him. It was as though she were touching him, he thought with a shudder. He was glad to get out of Marshmallows, climb back in his car, swing round the driveway, gravel spitting from his tires as he took off. It was only when he glanced back that he noticed a light in the house. He thought it must be coming from the attic, right under where the herons nested. He didn’t stop to think about it, but later, when he did, thought it must be Mehitabel’s room. He just got the hell out of there before darkness settled over the marshes and life disappeared.

44

The next evening Ahmet was at Marshmallows again, alone in the room he called his library simply because two walls were lined with shelves containing a “bought-in” selection of leather-bound books of the “quick and easy kind” a cheap decorator might purchase for effect and certainly not for reading. In fact Ahmet’s personal choice of reading matter, oddly, was Agatha Christie’s mystery novels, which he kept in an old Vuitton trunk, used now as a side table topped with a squat dark-shaded bronze lamp. Ahmet liked his lighting dim; bright light hurt his eyes and whenever he was out or in overlit areas he wore the dark glasses that had become his signature.

Now, though, he lay back in his red leather wing chair, eyes uncovered but half closed, contemplating the future and what he was about to do to Angie, and what he wanted to do to Lucy, and how he might achieve both those goals without leaving a body to be found, and persuading a young woman to become his wife. His treasure. A jewel he might show off so they could say lucky Ahmet, he’s surely the man with everything … all the money in the world, a grand yacht, a mansion, the giver of sumptuous parties, everybody’s friend—and now the possessor of a young and lovely wife. For Lucy would be lovely when he had finished with her. No, that was wrong, he was never going to “finish” with Lucy, he would marry her, they would be together forever; he’d see that she was dressed by the finest Paris couturiers; shoes would be made specially for her plump girly feet, her blond hair tamed by the best London stylist. And of course, any jewel she wanted would be hers.

He thought about all this, sitting there, the inevitable glass of good wine in front of him. A valuable Picasso plate that in any other collector’s hands might have been displayed in pride of place on a wall, but here merely sat on the Vuitton trunk, contained the usual thin slivers of toast dabbed with the good pâté made by the eighty-year-old woman in Aix-en-Provence. Which reminded him, he must have a check sent to her; she would be needing help again by now; she was getting older and the farm where she lived was falling into rack and ruin, he’d get someone over there to take a look at it, fix it up for her. Poor old girl. He thought for a while of the old woman, living alone, thought how sad it was; still she had lived a good life, never married, devoted only to her animals and the quality of the product she so carefully sold to those who appreciated it. He had helped; gotten her into Harrods and Fortnum’s, in a small way, of course, but that only made it more exclusive. She was able to live out her life in comfort, and he was glad because she had brought him pleasure. He always appreciated “pleasure.”

There was a tap at the door, and he turned to look. It was Mehitabel. He said nothing, simply stared at her, taking in the elaborate evening dress, the emeralds, the diamond hair clips. Irritated though he was to see her when what he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, he complimented her on her appearance, and asked, since she was so dressed up, where she was going.

“I’m here for you,” was her reply. The satin skirt slid open over her thigh as she took a step toward him, revealing a pale, slender leg and a hint of what lay beyond where the skirt just closed together.

Mehitabel was not the woman Ahmet wanted but despite himself he felt aroused; she was sexy in her way, lovely for sure, if you only glimpsed her in passing; elegant, classy even, if of course you did not know her background. Mehitabel could pass in most situations these days, thanks to his help, and his teaching, and his money. But right now he did not know why she was here and what she wanted of him.

She came and stood at his elbow, reached across and filled up his glass.

“Please, take one yourself,” he said, indicating a fresh glass on the tray. She poured a little of the red wine into it. As she leaned over he caught a glimpse of her exposed breasts, the dark, pointed nipples like shadows. It was obvious Mehitabel wore nothing under the green satin. Since Ahmet had never thought of her in any sexual way he wondered uneasily what was going on.

She stood in front of him, sipping the wine, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. He knew enough to understand Mehitabel’s smile meant either a secret, or trouble. “Okay, so let’s have it,” he said wearily; he was in no mood for game-playing, he had decisions to make, moves to make, earth-shaking moves. First, though, he had to figure out exactly what and how.

Mehitabel met his eyes. Her smile disappeared and she became all at once deadly serious. “I have something for you.”

He was busy with his own thoughts, impatient. “Well, what is it then?”

“Let me show you.”

Mehitabel strode back and opened the door. “Come in,” she said, though not, Ahmet noticed, in a kindly way. She was giving an order.

He stared at the woman who came into the room, stumbling in oversize red flip-flops, drowning in too-big gray sweats, bent over as if in pain. Her shaved head gleamed naked in the lamplight and around her neck was a jeweled dog collar, attached to the lead which Mehitabel held raised high in the air so that it pulled the woman’s neck, forcing her head up, so she would look at him.

“Dear God.” Ahmet stared at the woman he knew as Angie; though how he’d recognized the former sexy girl with the come-on patter and the mass of wonderful hair and the eyes that promised a future, he did not know. This …
creature
 … did not belong in his drawing room; she did not belong on earth, in the land of the living!

He turned to Mehitabel, said, “Why?
Why
did you do this to her?”

Stunned by Ahmet’s reaction, Mehitabel took a step backward. Clutching a hand to her throat, she said, “But I thought only to please you, I wanted you to extract full pleasure from this—”

“From this S&M tawdriness? From dressing her up—then taking her down? Mehitabel, you do not know me. This is not what gives a man like me pleasure.
You
do not give me pleasure. You are here only to obey orders, to carry out my commands, not to think on your own, to decide what I like and what I don’t like. Take this … person … away. Clean her up, dress her in her own clothing. No jewels. No bonds. Then bring her to me.”

Still Mehitabel hesitated.

“Understand?” he barked, and Mehitabel turned at once, took Angie’s arm, and led her out of the room.

Ahmet sank back into his chair. He took a great gulp of the wine. He flung the beautiful Picasso plate into the hearth with its delicious toast and pâté made by the nice old lady in Aix-en-Provence. He lay back with his head against the soft red leather chair, put his hands to his face, covered his eyes. Tears trickled through his fingers. He was as alone as he had ever been in his life. And he had no idea what he wanted. The yacht party, the grand ball, the famous guests.

After a while he sat up, he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbed away the tears, took a few deep breaths, slowly, yoga style as he had been taught to do when meditating. He knew he could not go on like this, he must regain his control, put all thoughts of others aside, return to the man he had once been, the way he had started out, letting nothing, no one, stand in his way.

An Apple laptop sat on the desk under the window. He turned it on, waited a few seconds. Outside the window was only darkness. Appropriate, he thought, for what was about to happen. When the computer came to life he sent a message to France to immediately evict the old woman who made the pâté from her small farm in Aix-en-Provence, close it down, kill off the animals, demolish the buildings. Leave nothing standing, nothing alive, was his order.

He got to his feet, looked around at the lamplit luxury, the overstuffed sofas and the too-heavy curtains and too many Turkish rugs, too much of everything. Soon Martha would change all that. Everything would be gone. He would make a fresh start. There was only one thing to get rid of now.

He called Mehitabel to bring Angie to him. Again.

45

Marco, Martha, and Lucy, with Em tucked as always under Marco’s arm where sometimes Martha thought she ought to be instead, though she told herself she seriously could not be jealous of a dog, took a flight to Antibes. Morrie remained in London, minding the shop, as he called it, and getting over what he’d told Martha was the scariest time of his life at Marshmallows, where he’d vowed never to return. That is until Martha told him he had to be practical, it was a job, he had work to do, and so did she; he should just get over it. Morrie guessed he would, but he would still not go back there alone.

Martha was a little surprised that Ahmet had not sent a car to meet them, but they took a taxi to Antibes and, after some discussion with the guard, were finally admitted onto the port where massive yachts and cruise vessels towered, some as high as fourteen stories, floating hotels for the famous, or merely the well-heeled. Their prows flaunted sharply into the sky making Marco think with longing of his lowly but beautiful wooden gulet, its prow painted with the face of a woman whose eyes showed the way across the sea. He felt an urge to be back on his small slip of land with his blue-shuttered one-room cottage with the stone terrace, the bottle of arak, and the sunset lighting everything with a rose-gold glow that lingered over the darkening sea. He felt Martha’s eyes on him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, squeezing his arm.

“Mind reader,” he said again, as Em leaned over and gave Martha’s face a lush lick. “That’s exactly what I’d like to do,” he added, stooping to kiss her ear, which was the nearest bit of her.

“Oh, give it up, you two.” Lucy turned away in mock disgust. “Just look at that bloody great boat, why don’t you?”

They did. The
Lady Marina
towered above them. They were ferried to the yacht on a speedboat by a sailor in white shorts, polo shirt, and sneakers, and greeted on board by the captain, also in his whites with his gold-trimmed cap and a firm handshake.

He told them that Mr. Ghulbian had left instructions they were to make themselves comfortable, that Martha should inspect the boat and get some ideas about what she might like to change, that anything they wanted was theirs, all they had to do was ask. Mr. Ghulbian would let them know later when he would be there.