Incapacitated he may be, Vince could still move the unbroken with
exactitude. He rested his elbow against the balustrade without letting his crutch
slip. He dipped his right hand into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. Was
he about to present his silver bottle-tops, she wondered? No. He tweezed out
his mobile phone. The hollow at the base of her throat twitched against her top
button. Vince’s flicked his index finger over the screen. Evidently, he had
done with the small-talk. Blue ray rebounded against his face as the phone came
to life. He paused, perhaps noticing Henry’s text message.
Nancy’s
voice box stiffened into a rusty hinge. His finger loitered before making
contact. His tip then embarked upon a slow and deliberate lentando she found conceited.
Nancy’s satchel bag took a life of its own. Her hands still attached, the bag formed
a perfect arc in the air, connecting with Vince’s right hand. A leathery clap
echoed against the Tudor walls. The phone took flight from his palm, twirling
as a rotor above Vince’s opulent candles and his nightclub shoots. Silicone
clattered against a Cubist print on the opposite wall whereupon the phone
plummeted. In hectic cartwheels, the phone connected with the tiles before
coming to rest at the foot of his oak desk.
Amber
constellations drifted past until her sights came to rest upon Vince’s lour. He
had not followed the phone’s trajectory. Nancy cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry,
Mr. Jonas. I cannot let you do that.’
His
expression did not change. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I
told you.’ Nancy fingered the top button of her blouse. ‘My name is Nora. I’m a
nurse.’
His
lour remained yet shifted in tone as though in thought. She guessed the
territory of the A-lister would encompass a trail of the aggrieved. But he had
got it wrong. Any name he was likely to conjure from his lips would be wrong. He
twisted on his crutches as though another thought occurred to him. His eyes
latched onto each door between them.
‘They
are all locked,’ she said.
His
gaze came back to her. Shackled to his crutches he may be, Nancy didn’t fare
her chances if she stepped too close. His eyelids hooded over in a wily look
Nancy didn’t savour.
Vince
seized the tops of his crutches. His face adopted a mask of tranquility as he
cast his crutches aside. They fell with a clatter to the floor. His palms
slapped the balustrade on their way down. A ganglion of tendons tremored on the
backs of his hands. Sweat beaded his face as he fed the spindles through his
grasp. The back of his jacket rode up, his knees buckled. A strangled grunt clawed
up from his throat. Discomfited, Nancy shifted her sights to nearby framed
photos – Vince attending the Brit Awards with moguls of the music industry; the
opening of Vince’s leisure complex, Dreamland in Monte Carlo; charity dinner
speeches with linchpins and pop icons. Vince had looked casual in an Armanai
suit, chinos or a sweater. Irony had cavorted about his eyes, at times an
incisor catching the light. Big names had shared his airspace, yet Vince commanded
the floor.
A
low gasp preceded silence. Nancy returned her gaze, unsettled by the contrast
in reality. Here, Vince’s form appeared contorted, his face flushed. His right
hand took a downward grope towards the seat of his trousers. A flattened palm
massaged the back of his knees as he lowered his rump to the floor. His feet
rocked from side to side as he did so. For the first time, she wondered at the
injuries he had sustained in the crash. The right to ask did not feel hers; she
dare not step closer. Instead she took a lofty tone. ‘There’s no need to play
games with me, Mr. Jonas.’
Vince
did not respond. Now seated and his hands liberated, he whipped off his jacket.
Snorts gusted from his nostrils as he folded the sleeves of his jacket inwards,
creating a bolster. He placed the
cushion at the foot of his door. Without looking at her, he lowered his head
and shifted onto his side. The manner in which he gazed at the lower panel of
his door said he was done with her. He closed his eyes.
Nancy’s
lips moved, verging on a question. She decided not to ask. His rebuff, like his
exactitude earlier was precise and cut as a shard of glass. Still, she could
hardly blame him. ‘Sweet dreams, Mr. Jonas,’ she simply said and stepped
towards the head of the stairs. The cap of her right Oxford clipped one of Vince’s
crutches. She paused and hoofed it against the skirting with a clack. He didn’t
move. Vexation prickled the back of her throat, but wouldn’t let it show in her
gait. Nancy descended each riser in a pendulous lope. Vince’s photos lodged in
her mind; his self-possession, his glinting incisor, his effortless charm.
Nancy didn’t have this gift. Vince could make the other feel on top of the
world, but he could switch it off at will. Vince had never looked at her with
that smile and she should be grateful. Vince had been cut down, but this
ability remained.
Nancy
picked up Vince’s mobile phone and put it in her coat pocket. Vince’s
wheelchair caused her to pause. An alternative existence would see her fingers
enfolding rubber grips like these as she had baths and hot dinners. Without
looking up, she wheeled the thing through the access way into the surveillance
room. She closed the door and backed the wheelchair against the panel. Brakes
engaged with a click.
The
composite image on the monitor continued to illuminate the recess. Kirkby Magnor
station would be receiving the remote feed, but one Nora Clements would soon be
expected on screen at this hour. Nancy depressed the star-shaped button. The red
light came off.
Nancy
slid her rump over the marble-topped table and fastened her coat. The thing had
emitted a truculent grumble in transits of an inch until the base had frictioned
across ten feet of floor to barricade off the surveillance room. Vince’s sweaty
finger may still find its way to the green button but at small odds – and
rightfully so. Still, she could barely stand to think of Vince’s form on the
upper landing, rebuffing her and all her efforts with his inertia. She returned
to the kitchen, palming Vince’s bronze keys. She inserted E2 with anticipation.
The lock gave way. Grateful, she opened the back door and let herself out.
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