Braker hasn’t driven his 4×4 since the accident. The bedroom is stifling hot. Sian set the heating to 30C. He is claustrophobic. He needs fresh air. He slides back the glass partition, steps out onto the veranda and chills as an invigorating blast of cold air whips his chest. Braker sneezes, smells the fug of her stale scent.
Slick watches him from across the road in her copper chrome Fiesta. Their eyes meet. She turns cooked-lobster pink, swings her stiff-hurt legs out of the car, and walks off towards the communal sports hall and recreational facility. Braker wonders if she will ever leave him alone.
Sian is lying on her side, fast asleep, shattered. Braker closes the smeared partition between them, carefully, so as not to wake her, crosses the bare pine floor, sealing his blonde woman in her crystal cube, and goes to the toilet. The bathroom is a shrine to his masculinity. Has a black slate floor, marbled walls, white porcelain toilet, bidet, deep-curved bath and basin.
He locks the door and enacts his intimate ritual of body cleansing. First, he sits on his throne and pees. Then, painstakingly, he sets about removing all traces of Sian from his body: her sediment, her body fluids, her acrid body odour. Once he has shaved, showered and sanitized himself, he rinses his hairy hands, and goes off to cook some brunch.
The kitchen is through the lounge which is littered with a contemporary sideboard, vast media unit and coffee table. He bought a royal blue sofa for Sian to luxuriate on, a criss-cross, coarse sisal rug for her tantric yoga moves. The kitchen has a dual-purpose fridge, an overhead storage unit full of her seeds, pasta, his nuts, a trendy cooking hob, and a small breakfast bar with three poseur stools which are still wrapped in polythene.
Starving, Braker raids the fridge, shreds up some plastic ham, beats three big eggs and rustles up a ham omelette with grilled turkey rashers. Next, he cremates three thick slices of granary, plasters them with low fat spread under thick-cut marmalade and downs two black coffees. He throws the dirties in the sink for Sian to deal with later and hurries to the spare room.
His new smart casual outfit is laid out neatly on the bed. His woman clearly went to a lot of trouble to choose him suitable spring clothing: pair of lovat moleskin jeans, sea blue soft cotton chambray shirt, navy-blue waxed jacket, tanned leather brogues. The clothes cost her a fortune. He snips off the price tags and cautiously opens the mauve envelope lying on the bed. The gilt embossed card reads:
Thanks for last night, Darling. Fondest Love, Sian xx
He returns to the bedroom, lump-in-throat, his beautiful Celtic princess, lain out on the bed, ready for his silent kiss. One of her soft-tanned knees protrudes, awkwardly, right-angled from under the ruched candyfloss duvet, emphasising her exhaustion. Braker admires her maternal breasts, heaving gently with the rhythm of her breathing, resting, snug in their quilted nest of furled down. He is struck dumb by her native Welsh beauty, can almost hear the crash of the waves, taste the salt on his lips, feel the sand on his skin, from when she first made love to him, clinching, clamping together, stark naked on Morfa Dyffryn beach.
Overwhelmed by a sudden rush of guilt to the heart, he stoops forward, kisses her twisted lips and brushes her forehead. Watching the sleepy-land smile spread across her blushing face. Screwing his eyes shut to stem the tears. Today might be the day that changes her life, his life. He lightly tucks Sian in, whispering his love to her, then turns to go, atoning for his guilt:
‘I love you, Sian. The last thing in the world I’d ever do is hurt you. But we need the money.’
*****
Their luxury apartment is overlooked by a 24-hour vet’s, full of dead, discarded pets, and a 15th century inn. Braker takes the fire stairs to the secured exit, quits the block, and crosses the road. Slick’s Fiesta is parked in one of the bays reserved for residents, next to his 4×4.
The terracotta-brown fence, skirting the pub beer garden, collapsed in last night’s storm-force winds. Several branches hang precariously off the trees, reminding him of the tenuous tightrope he treads with Sian, the causeway of deceit that leads his other, murky, life. As if to stress his seedy, dirty, lies, the back street is festooned with split, clear sacks spewing out soiled plastic boxes, fishy tin cans, oily, greasy, fish and chip papers, winter fodder for the starving foxes. Braker was so busy satisfying Sian’s eternal libido last night, he didn’t hear the raging wind. Smiling at the vivid memory, he cuts through a dingy alley, derelict garages, desiccated dog turds, then jogs down the steep hill to the station.
Sian watches her jaded love-heart blink the sleep bits out of his eyes through the tiny sensors she built into her man’s buttonhole. The train glides into platform 2 on time. Braker edges out of his rat-stained seat and makes his way to the exit. A cackle of witches gathers in the awayday coven at the far end of the carriage. He makes a fine show, sliding the window down, opening the door for them.
‘Allow me,’ he says.
‘Why, thank you, young man!’ the crones croak in unison, as Slick zips up her sage jersey jacket and pulls on some thick, grey woolly gloves.
Braker feels the wind bite his cheeks as he steps off the train. The sky is pencil grey, flecks of sleet float in the air. It is bitterly cold. He walks along the platform to the tourist information office. Inside, he is greeted by a blast of warm air and a fat-jolly-hockey-sticks type with a sad squint, lime-green eyes, curly ginger hair, and freckles.
‘How can I help you?’ She speaks cordially, in an elocuted old girl accent, ‘Did you want to buy a postcard? We don’t sell stamps, I’m afraid, only cards. Diaries are selling at half price.’
Feeling his bladder protesting, he ignores her tedious waffle, and asks her for directions to Palisades.
She sounds impressed. ‘Palisades?! Ah, I have a map!’
Hurry up you stupid old cow, I’m bursting.
Unhurried, she spreads out a street plan on the counter, scribbling one ‘x’ for the station and one ‘x’ to mark the location of the five-star hotel.
‘We’re here, your hotel’s there,’ she says, spreading out her webby fingers, ‘It’s a thirty-minute walk through the city centre. Are you in a hurry?’
No, I always stand with my fucking leg’s crossed.
Braker tells her that he is not in any hurry. He has two and a half hours to prepare himself for his client. More than enough time to see the city sights and enjoy lunch. What exactly does she suggest?
‘Why don’t you take the sightseeing bus from outside the station? It stops beside the hotel at stop 11. The ticket is valid for 24 hours. Can I interest you in one? You get to see the Roman Baths, Royal Crescent, Thermae Bath Spa, the Jane Austen Centre…’
‘How much?’
She laughs, enjoying his custom, his good looks. If only she were sixty-two years younger.
‘£12.30, great value if I say so myself.’
‘What time’s the bus?’ he asks, waving his debit card at her.
‘There’s one on the hour and every half hour.’
He spots the name badge pinned to her grey lapel, ‘Thank you, Juliet, you’ve been helpful.’
Julia Cavendish flashes him an embarrassed smile, ‘A pleasure, young man, enjoy our city.’
‘Where are the Gents?’ he asks, crossing his legs in anguish.
‘Outside, left, next to the Buffet, you can’t…’
Slick waits until Braker has left before entering. ‘I’m in a hurry. Give me a tour bus ticket.’
She pays the shop assistant in cash, takes the pink ticket, pulls on her gloves, and walks out. Slick catches up with the man at the ticket barrier. Shocked, Sian watches them pass through. Her man leaves the station, crosses Dorchester Street at the red lights and disappears inside the Southgate Centre.
Prêt is a short walk away. Slick watches, envious, as Braker treats himself to Chicken Caesar Salad, a tub of Sliced Mango with Lime and a steam-hot pot of Spicy Tomato Soup. She makes do with her Egg Mayo Sandwich and cup of milky Breakfast Tea. There’s an empty seat by the exit.
Braker takes a pew at the back, opposite two chatty students, and tucks into an early lunch. He always eats heartily before client meetings. Working on a full stomach helps him calm his nerves, supress his guilty feelings. He thinks about lovely, innocent Sian taking her test.
Sian sits up in bed, a tablet open on her naked thighs, the duvet round her feet, as he takes a sip of piping hot soup. She tastes his soup, feels the steam wet her face as he lifts the lid, feels the hot liquid blistering the roof of his mouth. He spills vinaigrette down the front of his new shirt. She feels it: greasy and damp.
Once he has eaten, Braker finds another toilet and cleans his teeth, using his index finger as a brush. Meanwhile, Slick leaves Prêt and ambles to the bus stop in nearby Manvers St.
The tour bus arrives later than expected. Braker checks his Rolex. He will arrive outside the hotel just in time. He climbs the spiral upstairs, sits in the front seat, clips on a plastic headset (which rabbits on about the Romans), and dozes. Slick sits downstairs, staring vacantly out of the window at the flimsy snowflakes fluttering down, celestial dandruff off Father Time’s head.
Sian isn’t enjoying the commentary, has a long-standing, historical disregard for Romans. She checks, a second time, places the pregnancy testing kit on the bedside table and rings her man to share the wonderful news. There’s no answer. Why doesn’t he ever return her call? She tries again. Call goes to voice mail. Why won’t he answer her? For crying out loud! Sian texts:
Call me, Darling. Urgent. Sian xx
He hasn’t switched on his phone. Braker leaves the bus at 13:55. Slick knows the bus, waits in the square five minutes, gives her quarry a head start. She removes her green bobble hat, shaking out her wavy auburn hair as she watches him vanish through the rotating door into the uninhibited luxury of Palisades.
Amber Slick is divorced and bereaved. Once a slim, attractive brunette, she let herself go after the terrible hit and run accident, involving the 4×4. She has grown jelly belly, a fat bum, and chunky thighs. The impact of the collision hurled her baby’s buggy into a Cotswolds stone wall, killing her little boy instantly. Amber was catapulted under the wheels of an approaching lorry, maimed for life and left a cripple. Her permanent smile masks her inner pain, her abiding bitterness, her sense of injustice at the outrage.
The driver of the 4×4 didn’t stop.
This woman is obsessed. Frightened by her disturbing behaviour, her husband fled the nest. Those infernal voices inside her warped mind spoke to her again last night, creeping back into the darkest recesses of her scrambled brain, to speak to her again: Not going to forgive and forget again are you, Amber? Are you listening to me, Amber? Is that bitch with him today? The one who sat and watched Timmy die through their rear car window? Is she? Or is he meeting someone else?
Amber is greeted like an old friend by the trainee manager at Palisades who offers to take her jacket, then walks her past the sleeping giant to the bar where she treats herself to a rare double gin and tonic. She takes off her jacket and sits out of view, innocuously dressed in a cheap mint green cardigan and tummy-slimmer slacks by Damart. Amber swallows the gin in one, enjoying its biting, piney taste. Then she waits. Slick has all the time in the world.
Minutes later, a smartly-dressed businesswoman enters the bar, biting her sore lip, a highly-strung bag of nerves. Nervously, the woman gently nudges Braker’s shoulder. Amber guesses, correctly, that this is her first illicit experience. The widow, divorcee, or adulterer is carrying a smart overnight bag, a change of clothes. Satin pyjamas, perhaps? Mature women prefer the comfort of satin pyjamas. Amber has witnessed many mature women in the company of Braker.
The woman introduces herself as Angie. The duo enjoys a polite smattering of conversation, leave the bar, and take the grand, spiral, crystal-chandeliered staircase to the first floor. Amber maintains a discreet distance, watching them zing-card their way into room 124 from behind a turn in the corridor, then waits in the lift lobby for Angie to leave.
Braker’s routine is always the same. He meets his client in the bar, goes to the bedroom, has paid sex, kisses her goodbye, then rests. Later, he will bathe, shower, sanitize, and remove all traces of her sediment from his body, before dressing in fresh clothes, and taking the evening train back to Paddington.
Angie, 65, leaves half an hour later. She is red-faced, embarrassed, in a hurry to leave. Slick follows her to the dingy, oily, smelly underground garage where she attacks her from behind. She kills her prey gracefully, silently, drawing the garotte tightly round her neck. The woman thrashes her head from side to side. Her brittle nails tear out her assailant’s hair. Her sagging elbows pummel Slick’s ribs. The victim strains and stretches, kicks, and bites. But Slick clings on. Until her death. Calmed, the woman relaxes onto Amber’s flat chest. Angie falls asleep one last time and dreams of the time when her gigolo made love to her, pretending to be her dead husband. Her neck still in twine, her sad head flops forward, her dead eyes stare into empty garage space.
Amber unwinds the sacrificial wire with its carved acorn handles, from the corpses neck as if she is peeling thick nylon sea fishing line off a reel-spool and stows it in her black Next handbag. She locks the corpse in its new 4×4 jeep, casually drops the keys into a storm drain, leaves the garage, and takes the staff lift to the first floor.
Knackered, Braker stirs from his luxuriant slumber in a magnificent four-poster bed. There it is again, the gentle knock on the door, the charming, feminine, little squeak of a stalking bird.
‘Room Service!’