“And if I did, I would bow down and ask him. Not to intervene when it came to you.”
Beautiful.
I wondered if anyone would ever feel that way about me.
“Okay, ready,” said Mike, pulling the door wide open.
48
We inched inside, ears primed. I felt like a wild cat on a midnight prowl. There was no beeping noise. There was no noise at all. Mike ducked out again and placed his tools carefully in the bag and left them by the door. He hopped back in and gave me a nod, easing the gun gently from my hands. He checked it, then slid it into his right hand. With his left he took my hand and we gave each other a little squeeze. We moved further in. I gave him a thumbs up, finding just the necessary amount of calm.
What the fuck are we doing?
I led the way, Mike standing to my right, close behind. We were stepping into the large kitchen-sun room. It was dark, but there was a brightness coming from somewhere beyond that threw a little light in. It was surreal to be back in the place. We moved through the kitchen. The last time I had been there was to play the gig for their wedding. I had played all the usual wedding hits and requests from the happy couple. I had toasted them and all the merry makers had joined in with me. I had felt pangs of guilt then. I should have felt worse. That was because only weeks before the wedding, one of the grooms had been shagging me in almost that very place. Jesus, I had made some fuck ups in the last few years.
As I continued to lead the way across the large kitchen sunroom, it felt as if I had been pulling myself out from within a cloud. Only now had I been able to push my head clear and begin to see daylight. If we could just get this last part done, I vowed to myself that things would change – big time. Passing by the large Aga oven and hob, we were nearly at the door. Even in semi darkness, you could tell the kitchen was incredibly impressive, the finish was second to none. The place looked clean and tidy, apart from a half bottle of twelve-year-old Bushmills sitting out on the counter beside an ice tray. I looked down at it; about half the squares were vacant and the other ones were almost thawed. Some still had thin sheets of ice floating on top, the water level threatening to spill over the top. Mike and I paused at the same moment, a few feet from the door. The corridor at the end sprouted off both left and right.
“I think you should put that away – at least at the start,” I said, pointing to the gun.
“I dunno,” Mike whispered back, additional concern etched across his face.
“Sure we just want to talk him if we can – don’t we? Give him a scare from us breaking, then show him the video.”
Mike thought for a moment. “Alright Vick,” he said, his mouth straight, before shoving the gun down his back jean pocket. We shared a look, then I took a breath and stepped out into the hall. I looked both ways. I still couldn’t tell where the light was coming from. It could have been from both sides. Each way led to a corner that I couldn’t see around. Mike came up beside me and we both scanned each way, then stopped still and listened. Nothing. I knew that the left led to more reception rooms, but wasn’t sure about the other way.
I pointed left and raised an eyebrow. Mike nodded and we moved on out. I made my way along, faster now. I felt okay, tenuously in control. I recognised that at any time things could spiral out of control, or else I could. The corridor wound all the way round to the front hall. He arrived to the side of it, next to the large spiral staircase. It’s a thin, metal and fairly modern affair, but it is very striking. A lamp was on, sitting on the table below it. The hall was dimly lit by it, shadows casted around the sparse furniture – another table, a wooden high backed chair, and a decorative chest. The grey walls were almost completely covered in a hotchpotch of art. There was modern cubism, next to traditional landscapes, beside stylised oil portraits of tattooed girls and sailors. We were quiet. All I could hear was Mike’s breathing, reverberating around the room, bouncing off the tiled floor. The door off to the left I knew to be some kind of study. There was light seeping from it, the door slightly ajar. The rest of the other appeared to be in darkness. He was in there. I felt sick.
Just get it over with.
I did a little hop and patted Mike’s arm as I set off towards the door. Mike gave a start and stepped after me.
The room was dark, panelled and tasteful. It was Richard’s study. It was very him. I imagine that the hall was more Ivan’s doing. There was an antique green glass lamp providing a dull glow. It was on top of a mahogany desk. There was a glass of something reddish and expensive on the table. There were various documents, bills and bank statements, spread across it as well. Seated behind it all was Richard.
49
His face contorted. “Vicky?”
He shot up.
I was the ghost of Banquo.
“Jesus,” he said, pressing a steadying hand down on the desk.
Mike stepped in beside me.
“What the fuck is this?” he said.
His voice was slurred. His tie uneven. Then there was the bruising. His face was badly swollen on one side, his forehead also red and scraped. I was taken aback by his dire appearance, pleasantly so.
“Richard,” I said simply. I hoped it sounded confident; confident and triumphant.
“Sit
