‘You
cannot begin to know how I feel…gratitude, remorse, guilt,
jealousy…self-hatred.’ He paused at the potency of his words. ‘Part of me
wishes it hadn’t been you in the limo with me but words are cheap and in
situations like these, I find them repugnant. I am a prisoner of what you have
done for me. I cannot exist like that. Therefore it seems we are both in
accordance with not going public on what you did.’
Nancy
did not experience the relief she had expected.
‘But
by not going public about what you did, the press will wonder why I allowed an
imposter into my home without pressing charges. The press love unanswered
questions, Nancy; they like to use them to speculate, to fill in the answers
and create a good story, especially for a public figure like me. There is a
choice of people to talk to already: namely everybody Amy referred to earlier.
The story would get more interesting when the press find out you had stopped at
a local hostel under an assumed name and that this person is one and the same
as the woman who was snapped outside the Nexus with me on the night of the
crash. The story would get more interesting when the tabloids decide we are an
item because I never turned you in after the police were quite rightfully
called here. Because of me, bloodhounds would start sniffing around your past
and no one can stop the press from making wild speculations about your
character, my association with someone of that nature and dragging up the sort
of dirt you cannot imagine.
‘But
the story would get less interesting if I press charges as expected. All
questions are answered. Do you see, Nancy? The story would dry up. You will get
a blemish on your record, but your past will be preserved and you will fade
into obscurity. I am able to protect my interests here and you can pick up the
pieces of your life in privacy.’ Sweat on his brow glinted from the sunlit
window and Nancy could see a man not shackled by his crutches but by his
success. ‘This is why I have to go along with my advisers and play things by
the book.’
Nancy’s
face fell slack as the meaning of his words sunk in.
Blakemore’s
voice echoed from the kitchen door. ‘Mr. Jonas, the police are outside.’
Nancy’s
tears had cleared to see tortured humility that looked incongruous on his face.
‘F…forgive me, Nancy,’ he croaked.
A
draught tendrilled around her ankles. Footsteps shifted somewhere behind. But a
smile teased at the edge of her lips. Her throat spasmed. ‘…and we never got
round to Monopoly.’ The last word emerged cracked.
The
scar at his throat shifted with a muscle contraction. His eyelids wavered but
his eyes remained on her.
Nancy’s
voice succumbed to a whisper. ‘Thank you, Mr. Jonas.’
Footsteps
continued their approach. ‘Ms. Hutchens.’ A soft but firm female voice. ‘Ms.
Nancy Hutchens.’ Flattened fingers came to rest upon her spine. ‘Ms. Hutchens,
you are being taken into custody for breaking and entering a private property.’
Nancy’s feet refused to budge. ‘Come on, Ms. Hutchens or I will have to explain
your rights here.’
Nancy’s
feet faltered into stride. She glimpsed a pony-tailed constable in a
bomber-jacket. A second official waited next to Blakemore and Henry at the
doorway. Blakemore’s hands clasped at his front, contrite; beside him, Henry’s
head drooped from his shoulders as a schoolboy in detention. The bonnets of two
police cars glinted in the sun outside. Nancy didn’t mind. She glanced back to
see Vince’s crutched form standing by the window, his watchful eyes receding
into shadow.
Nancy
turned to the constable. ‘It wasn’t my fault, was it?’
The
constable cast Nancy a baffled look.
‘Her
addiction, her lunacy. None of it was my fault.’
The
policewoman escorted Nancy onto Vince’s patio where the CCTV fed the image onto
the monitor screen in the surveillance room.
