VINCE
checked himself out in the large mirror of the Nexus nightclub on the Chelsea
Embankment. His hair now shoulder-length in glossy fronds gave him a Bohemian
look. In a black pinstriped suit and waistcoat, he felt chic if a little
trussed up. A furor surged from the Stella Suite on the other side of the
hallway. A rapped-up version of Peter Gabriel’s Big Time filled an
interlude. Vince crushed a couple of Panadols between his teeth and washed them
down with Sauvignon. He was getting the jitters. His fore-hair was feeling
damp. Piqued, he teased it aside. A rap came to the door. Marcus popped his
head through. ‘Hey, Vince, how goes it in here?’
Vince
let his forelocks drop. ‘Good.’
Marcus
entered and leaned against the mirror to face him. ‘You’re lookin’ mighty
elegant, Man. It’s good to have you back.’
Vince
lifted his chin to check his scar didn’t show above the collar of his shirt.
Cackles pulsed across the hallway.
‘Sure
you’re ready for this?’
Vince
straightened his tie. ‘Yeah.’
Never
one for forcing the issue, Marcus gave a small nod. ‘Okay. See you in three.’
Vince
drew his palms down the sides of his trousers.
Marcus
paused noticing. ‘You’re gonna be fine, Vince,’ he said and slapped Vince’s
shoulders. Vince assembled a smile before Marcus left the room.
Vince
decided he’d had enough of his reflection and lugged himself from the chair
onto his crutches. Cosseted in braces, his knees felt secure but the ligaments
buzzed whenever he set them to task. Her harsh brand of rehab had left him with
a sprained calf muscle and a twisted cruciate ligament. In his short respite
after her arrest, he had completed the houses of Parliament. But things had
gone better than he had predicted. The dramatic resignation of the foreign
minister David Ritzau after allegations from his ex-wife of tax evasion had cut
short the story of one Nancy Hutchens, the penultimate female passenger of his
crashed limo. Given to a fleeting obsession after her shoot with him outside
the nightclub, Nancy had tricked her way into Vince’s property. No one had
corrected the error she was a nurse, so to the public eye, this intruder
remained a nurse. Of course, Vince had done the logical thing and called the
police. Vince knew that the mystery passenger of the limo crash would haunt the
papers now and again never to really disappear.
Authorizing
Nancy’s arrest was the most repugnant thing he had ever done, and he had done
some. She had lasted one week before the tabs turned blind on her. No change in
the crash investigation, the files went to the vault with the one unanswered
question.
He
had made discreet enquiries on her. A month after her arrest, she moved out and
rented a flat in Wootton. She got an admin job at the council and was seeing a
conveyancer called Mark. The findings cut him unprecedented but should have
anticipated something like this. Who could blame her? Vince considered sending
her money but thought she might find the act crass. Vince decided to keep his
options open.
One
day.
Vince
shifted to the door and nudged the handle downwards. The commotion came clearer.
Two ushers waited at the double doors. At times like these, he missed Leon; he
missed his veiled cynicism and his serene deportment. At this moment, an awry
grin would caper around his otherwise still expression.
Vince
broke out in a sweat. Right now, he would trade everything in for her kiss at
his throat. Never had he felt so possessed by someone. He shuddered at the
notion such lips dwelling by right could belong to one with a Nora persona. His
mind had recorded every detail to curb the stuttering flashbacks that still
plagued him at night.
She
hadn’t asked the question. He could have told her he knew seconds after cutting
her down with that remark about Misery. She had looked upon him before sleep
had robbed him of the chance to tell her. The sidelight describing her facial
contours echoed of the woman in the limo. Instead of telling her the next day,
the knowledge had sealed his mouth shut. How could he utter such emotive words
to someone who mocked him, who mocked his lifestyle by serving up custard
creams, fish-fingers and mushy peas, jigsaws, a rain-soaked wheelchair and a
disabled stairlift?
Vince
stepped forwards to spur the ushers aside. Designed for his expediency these
protocols irritated him. He just wanted her kiss at his throat, that’s all. He
didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want anything the present offered. Vince
gritted his teeth and the crutches creaked their way through to the Stella
Suite.
