Lovers and Liars Trilogy (26 page)

There were no lights on in Gini’s apartment. Anxiety tightened his throat. He ran down the steps to the basement area. In the darkness he scrabbled around the flowerpots, found the key, inserted it, and threw the front door back.

He ran into the living room, switching on the lights and calling her name, just in case she had returned. Then his eyes took in the room, and he stopped dead.

He stared around him with fear, then anger, then disbelief. Gini had had visitors. And they had left a calling card of a kind, a large one, an unusual one. There it was, foursquare, neatly centered, on the top of her desk.

When Gini emerged from the tube station, it was six. The sidewalks were crowded with office workers going home; she could hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Two ambulances passed, shooting the intersection’s red lights. She could not wait to be home, to tell Pascal of her success. She began to run, a few blocks from Gibson Square. When she reached it, the first thing she saw was Pascal’s motorbike. Her heart lifted. She ran down the area steps. The curtains were drawn, but the lights in her apartment were on. It was so good, she thought, to see that. She was so used to returning to dark rooms and silence.

She was calling Pascal’s name before the door was half-open. The sentence she had been storing all this way home was already on her lips.

“Pascal, Pascal,” she called. “I’ve found her—the woman who delivered those parcels. I know who she is….”

She crossed the tiny foyer, opened the door to the living room, and stopped dead. She gave a little cry, staring around her in disbelief. Her apartment had been rifled. More than that, it had been wrecked.

In the midst of the wreckage stood Pascal. He swung around as she entered, white-faced. The tension in the room was like a force field. Gini felt herself collide with it. The next second Pascal was across the room. His arms tightened around her. He pressed her against him.

“Gini, Gini…” he said. “Oh, thank Christ.”

He was still wearing his jacket, and it was wet. Gini felt the slickness of wet leather against her face. Through the thickness of the leather she could feel his heart beat. She closed her eyes, clung to him, and just for an instant let the past come swooping back. Pascal was touching her. She felt his hands against her wet hair, cradling her head. He began to kiss her hair, her forehead, then abruptly he drew back.

He held her a long time, at arm’s length, still gripping her hands. He touched her face, and to her astonishment she realized his hand was shaking.

“There was another bomb,” he said. “At King’s Cross. I saw the police clearing the station. I just heard it on the radio. I thought—you could have come back that way. But you didn’t. You’re safe….”

She could see him fighting down the emotion in his voice. Releasing her hands, he gave a sudden, almost angry gesture. “I’m sorry. It’s a legacy from the war years. Bombs. Snipers. You see someone at breakfast. You find out they’re dead that night. The suddenness of death. The fact that it’s arbitrary, no one’s safe. Ever. I can’t forget….”

“Pascal, it’s all right. I remember too. I didn’t come that way. I came straight home from the City. I—”

She stopped and looked away. Chaos surrounded them: possessions tossed in heaps. She saw herself stand and wait, all those years before: a square, bare room, hours passing, people passing, bombs in the distance, the rattle of machine guns, all those Beirut hours when she feared for him. She hesitated, fought to remain steady, looked around the room. She said: “Who would do this? Why? There’s nothing here worth stealing.”

“I don’t think theft was the point.”

He spoke flatly, and Gini knew there was something in his tone, some warning, but her mind couldn’t catch it. Events were too fast, too sharp. Her home felt invaded; she felt invaded. She gave a little shiver, gazing around her with mute distress. This hurt: It hurt to think of strangers rifling her closets, going through her desk. On the floor, scattered, were all the bits and pieces that made a life: letters, postcards, tapes, books, photographs, diaries. Had they read her diaries, read her letters? She hesitated, then looked back at Pascal’s intent white face. He was watching her closely, carefully, and she felt an instant’s sudden panic, a sensation of defenselessness. She looked away: Was that due to the break-in, or Pascal’s momentary closeness, his embrace?

She took a few steps forward. In a flat voice she said, “I suppose I’d better call the police.”

“No.” Pascal moved so he stood between her and her desk. “No. Don’t do that. I wouldn’t call the police.”

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t an ordinary break-in, Gini. There’s no sign of forced entry, for one thing. No broken glass, no broken locks.”

Gini stared at him. Her mind seemed to be working very slowly. “You mean they used the key?”

“I think so, yes. If so, they were good enough to replace it. But, Gini, it’s more than that.” His face was troubled. He hesitated. “In a minute, I’ll show you. They’ve been everywhere. In the kitchen. The bathroom…”

“My bedroom?” She swallowed; she began to feel sick.

“Yes. There too.” He paused. “But before we go in there, there’s something else you have to look at. These were unusual thieves, Gini. Thieves don’t usually leave gifts.”

“Gifts? I don’t understand….”

“They left you something, Gini. They left you this.”

He moved slightly to the side as he spoke, and she saw it then, on the desk behind him. Another parcel, larger than the first. As before, it was neatly wrapped in brown paper, as before, the string was sealed with scarlet wax.

Pascal cut the string with a knife. Inside the wrapping paper there was a box. Inside the box were sheaves of black tissue paper. Inside the nest of paper was a shoe: one shoe, a woman’s, made to fit the left foot. It was black patent leather. It had a four-inch stiletto heel. Inside the shoe was a stocking, also black, very sheer. She laid it out on the desk in front of them, her hands trembling slightly. There was a sharp intake of breath from Pascal. Gini stared down at the stocking, puzzled. It had a pretty laced-edged top. At first she thought it had been looped together in some odd way. Then she realized what Pascal had already discovered: The black stocking was tied in a noose.

She gave a low exclamation. Pascal’s face became set. He picked up the shoe, then the stocking, and examined them closely. Both appeared new. The sole of the shoe was leather, and unmarked. Neither shoe nor stocking bore any maker’s name.

Pascal turned to look at her. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said grimly. “I’m thinking the same thing. You’d better try it on.”

Gini removed her own shoe. She inserted her foot into the black patent leather. It pained her instep, for she never wore heels this high. Even so, it was at once apparent to them both: This shoe might have been made for her—Cinderella’s slipper. Gini looked down. She hated this shoe, she loathed this shoe, but she couldn’t deny it was a perfect fit.

“I feared this,” Pascal said. “I feared this….”

Gini kicked the shoe off. She bent, replaced her own, then straightened. “They’re trying to frighten me, Pascal. They want to frighten me off. Well, I won’t let them do that. I know what they thought—they planned it very carefully. They thought I’d be alone, that I’d come home, alone, in the dark, and find this….” She hesitated; an expression she did not understand crossed his face. Impulsively, she reached for his hands.

“Don’t you see, Pascal? That’s how they planned it? And they were wrong. I’m
not
alone. You’re here, and—”

“Oh, no, Gini. I’m afraid you’re wrong. I think they knew I’d be here. This message is for both of us.”

“They can’t have known that. How? It’s not possible.”

“I don’t know how they knew, but they did. Gini.” He hesitated. “Come into the bedroom. You’ll understand then….”

The bedroom, like the living room, was in a hideous mess. All the closet doors, all the drawers, had been opened. There were clothes tossed everywhere. There was a trail, from door to window, of all her most personal belongings: her underclothes, her nightgowns, makeup, jewelry, all tossed down in a heap. On the top of the pile, near the door, were the two photographs she kept by her bed. A picture of Mary, a picture of her father. Their silver frames were buckled, their glass smashed as if someone had stamped on them and ground them underfoot.

Pascal, beside her, put his arm around her gently. “Gini,” he said, “Gini, try not to be upset. They like to smash things, to hurt. So far, so predictable, in an ordinary break-in, you might expect to find this. But look over here.”

He hesitated, as if unwilling to continue, then gestured toward the bed. “You see? It’s random destruction, apparently. But there’s nothing random about this. …”

Gini followed his gaze. She gave a low cry. She felt the blood drain from her face.

They had arranged the display on the bed very carefully, as an artist might arrange a still life. There, laid out across the duvet, was a white nightgown, the nightgown she had slept in the previous night. Around it and upon it were her relics, those sad little secret mementos of her past life. A dried flower, Pascal’s one-page letter, a bullet casing, the room service menu from a Beirut hotel, a copy of
L’Etrangère.
In the center of the nightgown, carefully placed, was one small gold earring. She took a step forward; the earring glittered, struck the light.

She gave a small, incoherent gesture, took another step forward, reached out her hand. Suddenly, almost harshly, Pascal jerked her back.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t touch the nightgown. Don’t, Gini. I’ll deal with it. …”

“What? Why? I don’t understand….”

He put his arms around her and drew her away. “It was a man who did this. At a certain point…it excited him, Gini. He’s used your nightgown. Please, don’t look. Come out of here, now.”

Gini broke away from him, she backed into the doorway. Her skin felt icy, then clammy and hot. She felt the room sway, start to shift. Pascal gave an exclamation of concern and tried to take her hand, but she pushed him aside.

“Don’t touch me,” she said. “Please, just don’t touch me!”

She ran away from him, into the bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it. Then she knelt on the white tiles, surrounded by more detritus, broken scent bottles, shards of glass. She could hear Pascal outside, calling her name, hammering on the door. She knelt there, shivering; the glass cut her hand, this space was cold and white and hideously shameful. After a while Pascal stopped hammering on the door. There was a long corridor of silence, then she was violently sick.

She had forgotten how kind Pascal could be; she had forgotten, or not allowed herself to remember, how his kindness conveyed immense strength. When she finally emerged from the bathroom, he took her in his arms like a child. He bathed her hands and her face. He took her back to the living room and made a space for her by the fire. He wrapped a blanket around her and made her sit still. He fetched her sweet tea, and then a little weak whisky to drink.

“Sit there,” he said. “Just sit there quietly, Gini. You’re in shock. I’ll come back in a minute. There’s just some things I need to clear up.”

She listened to his footsteps as he moved around her bedroom, then the kitchen. She heard the back door open, the clang of the trash-can lid. Cold air eddied through into the room. Pascal returned. He was carrying Napoleon.

“Here, Gini.” He stroked Napoleon, then placed him on her lap. “One cat. One wet, bedraggled, forlorn cat. He must have been outside in the yard all this time. Shall I get him some milk?”

Gini nodded. She held Napoleon close. He bristled his fur and watched her warily with his huge topaz eyes. Then he curled beside her and began to lick his wet fur into place. Pascal returned with a saucer of milk, which he placed near the sofa. Then he knelt down so he was directly in front of her, and took her hand in his.

“Now,” he began, his voice gentle but firm, “I want you to listen to me, Gini. Promise? You won’t interrupt?”

Gini nodded.

“Where did you keep those things—those things from Beirut? Were they in your bedroom?”

“No.” Gini swallowed. She lowered her gaze. “I kept them in here. In a box. In my desk.”

“Darling, don’t. Don’t. Don’t cry.” He leaned forward and drew her against him. He stroked her hair, and waited while she wept. When the little storm of tears was over, he drew back from her gently. Gini couldn’t tell whether he regretted that endearment or not. Perhaps it had been instinctual, accidental, just meant to be soothing. It was not repeated.

“Listen to me, Gini.” He clasped her hands. “You understand what this means? Someone—whoever came here, or whoever sent them—that person knows a great deal. I think he knew about that key. He certainly knows your shoe size. And he knows how to hurt you, and me.” He paused. “Gini. He knows about Beirut.”

“That’s not possible.
No one
knows.” Her throat felt dry, and it was hard to speak. “You. My father. Me. No one else….”

“Does Mary know?”

“No. No. I never told her.”

“Would your father have told her?”

“
No!
He swore to me he wouldn’t. He promised he wouldn’t tell anyone. If he had told Mary…Pascal, Mary’s so honest, so direct. If she knew, I’d have guessed.”

Pascal frowned. “Then I don’t understand. I’ve never discussed this. Not with anyone. Not even my wife. Gini, think. You’re sure? No one?”

Gini hesitated. She looked down. “I told a friend today. At work. That I’d known you before. But that was the first time, ever. Truly, Pascal. And that can’t have any bearing on this. I only saw her this afternoon. Late. It was past three o’clock.”

“That doesn’t account for it. I was back here just after four. Dammit. It has to be your father, Gini. He must have told someone—it has to be. Unless…”

She saw him break off, hesitate, look around the apartment, at the phone, at her desk.

“Unless what, Pascal?”

“Nothing. Never mind that now.” He turned back to her. “There’s something more important. Never mind how they knew for the moment. Take this.”