hardly lifted the object clear from his sock.
Then as Leduc flew back against the side glass, blood erupting from his chest, the object fell from his hand and they saw what it was: a black notebook.
Roman’s eyes were raw panic. ‘I thought it was a gun. I thought it was a gun.’
Leduc’s blood was everywhere: splattered against the window behind, some splashes on the roof, on the windscreen, a heavy gout on Georges chest and lap, and sticky and warm on the seat where he gripped tight for some reality with one hand.
Roman’s expression quickly changed; his eyebrows knitted together, pleading. ‘Christ’s sake, don’t tell Jean-Paul how I mucked up. It’s gotta be our secret. Believe me, I thought…’
Roman’s next actions were quick, almost a card sharp’s sleight of hand, because Savard and Tremblay were heading frantically towards the car — Roman flipped a gun from a strap by his right ankle onto the floor by Leduc, grabbed the notebook and tucked it into his inside pocket.
Roman stared hard again at Georges. ‘You with me on this?’
‘Do I have much choice?’ Georges looked between the newly placed gun on the floor and Roman. Savard and Tremblay were only yards away, almost upon the car. Georges eased out a long breath and closed his eyes momentarily in submission, nodding hastily. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m with you.’
Then everything suddenly slipped another notch; part of it was more hazy, surreal, yet his senses seemed more finely tuned. He felt every small motion, every tic of expression from Roman like a ponderous, heavy heartbeat.
Savard and Tremblay were no longer there, it was just Roman and him alone with Leduc’s body.
Roman’s eyes were piercing straight through him. ‘I don’t believe you. I don’t trust you. You’re gonna betray me.’
‘No, no, I won’t. It’s okay. I’m with you on it.’
Roman’s gun rose to point at him. His eyes burnt with intent. ‘If not now, then at some stage you’ll betray me. I know it.’
Leduc’s blood was already congealing, sticky everywhere he touched, the stench from his body waste overpowering in the confined space. ‘No, no. I won’t betray you. I swear.’
The gun levelled at his face, a sardonic smile creasing one corner of Roman’s mouth as he started to pull the trigger.
‘No, no… I promise, I…’
He jolted sharply upright a second before the bullet hit, bathed in sweat, Simone’s face above him blurring slowly into vision, her hand gently stroking his shoulder.
‘…You okay?’ She watched his eyes focus on her, and leant forward and kissed him lightly on one cheek. ‘You were shaking the bed a lot, calling out.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ He cradled his forehead for a second and then ruffled his hand through his hair, orientating. They were at his place and it was still dark outside. He glanced at the bedside clock: 5.12am. ‘Just a dream,’ he stated the obvious, as if that might brush it all quickly away.
‘Anything interesting? Terri Hatcher got your head trapped between her thighs? Or maybe Roseanne, if it was a nightmare?’
‘Nothing so exciting.’ He sniggered lightly, which subsided into a shiver that ran through his body. ‘That night with Leduc coming back to haunt me.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘And it’s not the first time.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Simone glanced down awkwardly. She looked up slowly after a second, met his eyes steadily. ‘You know, papa never really talks about business with me. But he’s mentioned that incident to me now twice. I know that he feels badly about it, feels that he should never have sent you along.’
‘I know.’ He nodded and gently clasped her hand. Now it was his turn to feel a stab of guilt: her father still shouldering the blame, and meanwhile he was continuing to shield the truth from him. It was Jean-Paul he was betraying, not Roman; a betrayal of the trust Jean-Paul had long placed in him. He owed Roman little or nothing.
He ran his hand up her arm and lightly stroked her shoulder. He bit at his bottom lip as he met her gaze. ‘Look. There was something that happened that night with Roman and Leduc. Something that I never…’ And then he was reminded of why he’d gone along with Roman and said nothing: the newcomer to the fold driving a wedge between two brothers who’d worked the family business together harmoniously for so many years. His allegiance to Jean-Paul balanced against the family code of silence and not ratting. He didn’t want to be the messenger of bad tidings, the reason for any rift. On the one occasion since that Roman had broached the subject, he’d commented, ‘I won’t tell Jean-Paul. But
‘You poor thing.’ Simone lightly stroked his brow, then ran one finger lightly down one cheek and across his top lip. He closed his eyes and she leant forward and kissed where her fingers had been, her tongue gently probing. It became a long, deep, sensuous kiss that made his mind flee all else for a moment. And as she finally broke away, she said teasingly with a faint smile, ‘There’s only one thing you should feel sticky against your skin,’ and started planting butterfly kisses slowly down his body.
She pushed him back under the gentle but firm press of her fingertips after a second, and he surrendered to her soft kisses and caresses as he lay flat on his back, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dark and forming images in the faint city-streetlight that filtered up to play across his ceiling.
Savard had brusquely swung open the car door only seconds after he’d finally submitted to Roman, ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m with you.’
Leduc’s body slumped back with the opening door and was half supported by Savard’s thigh. Savard’s eyes shifted haphazardly, trying to extract some sense from the scene beyond the carnage.
‘He had a gun, a gun,’ Roman protested, waving his own weapon towards the offending object on the floor.
Savard had his own gun out, but it was held loosely, didn’t pose a threat. Savard’s eyes jumped between Roman and the gun on the floor. ‘I thought you searched him.’
‘I did, but it was in his ankle sock.’
Savard’s eyes rested finally on Georges, as if for confirmation. And after a second, Georges nodded numbly and cast his eyes down.
From that moment on, the dye was cast, immovable; and now that he’d kept up the same pretence, the same lie for so long, an extra impenetrable layer of concrete had been added.
Georges blinked heavily to shift the ceiling images, a slow tear welling in the corner of one eye as Simone started to make love to him. She trusted him, as did Jean-Paul. But Georges just couldn’t see any way out of it.
The tape operator, Carlo Funicelli, sat up as fresh sounds started the tape rolling again. A Calabrian Italian who ran an audio and electronics shop in St Leonard, his income was supplemented by fencing stolen goods and the occasional specialist bugging jobs like this. The tape was on sound activation, and as he glanced at the clock — 5.11am — he realized he must have dozed for over four hours.
Funicelli sat back, relaxing. Nothing exciting, no dramatics. He thought at first they might be shouting or arguing with each other, something of a first. Some chink in their relationship that Roman would have been happy to hear about.
