Knife Edge (12 page)

I surprised Cara at work one afternoon by turning up unannounced at her salon with a picnic basket. Cara looked beautiful. She had on a dark-blue cropped top which showed off her midriff and a matching blue, flouncy skirt with gold thread running vertically through it. Long, thin gold earrings framed her face and she looked so animated, so
alive.
It made me smile just to look at her.

'Steve, it's a wonderful idea, but I just can't pick up and leave,' Cara protested.

'Why not?' I asked. 'Will this place fall down if you're not here for one afternoon?'

'But I've got Mrs Burgess coming in at three and another client due at quarter to four—'

'Someone else can snip their hair or they can come back some other time,' I said. Come on, Cara. Don't make me beg, I thought with irritation.

Cara looked at me, then broke into a smile. 'I'm out of here, everyone.'

And she linked arms with me. We left without a backwards glance. And in that moment I knew I had her. It was only a matter of hours or at the most days before I got hold of every penny she had.

We went to the park and sat on the picnic benches near the children's playground and talked and ate and talked some more.

'When're you going to tell me some more about you?' asked Cara, before biting into an apple.

'What d'you want to know?'

'What d'you do for a living?'

'I'm between jobs,' I said. 'But up until a few months ago I worked in . . . construction.'

'Building work?'

'That's right.'

'Building or painting and decorating or what?' asked Cara.

'Painting and decorating mostly,' I said. 'But enough about me . . .'

'Funny, but after a couple of questions, you always say that,' said Cara. 'I'll have to call you my mystery man.'

'Nothing mysterious about me,' I told her. 'My life's an open book.'

'An open book but in a language I can't read,' Cara said wryly, making me laugh.

After our picnic, we strolled round the park, then caught a film at the local cinema before heading back to Cara's for dinner. An hour later, we both sat down to a meal of ribbon pasta with chicken and a bottle of reasonable red wine.

'Steve, d'you like me?' Cara asked without warning.

I groaned inwardly. Why did girls always want to talk about relationships and feelings? Why couldn't we just get on with our evening without all this introspective crap?

'Of course I like you,' I replied.

'Then why've you never tried to do more than kiss me?' Cara asked, unable to look me in the eyes.

Her head was bent and she was obviously embarrassed. I put down my fork, my appetite vanishing. What was I supposed to say to that?

'I've just had a lot on my mind recently,' I sighed. 'You know, I'm still looking for a job and I've got bills to pay and things aren't going too well for me at the moment.'

'Then please let me help,' Cara pleaded.

'No, I told you—'

'It's only money, Steve.' Cara sprang up and headed for the table in the corner of her living room. Taking off the necklace around her neck, she used the small key on it to open one of the desk drawers. The only drawer in the desk that was locked – as I knew from past experience. I watched as she took out her cheque book, then walked back over to me.

'How much d'you need?' She was signing the cheque before even filling in the amount.

'I'm not taking your money,' I told her quietly.

'Please, Steve. I want to do this. I want to help,' said Cara.

But I hardly heard her. I threw down my napkin onto the table and stood up.

'I think I'd better go,' I said.

'Steve . . .' Cara placed a warm hand against my face.

She looked up at me like she really did like me or something. Like I was something special in her life, even after the few short weeks we'd been together. Cara stood on tiptoe and kissed me. I closed my eyes – and found myself kissing her just as passionately as she was kissing me. It'd been a long time since anyone had wanted me like that. I wrapped my arms around her, my eyes still closed and kissed her like this moment was the last thing, the only thing I had left.

And then I opened my eyes. Cara was still kissing me, her eyes shut, but at the sight of her, my soul froze. I pulled away, staring at her.

'What's the matter?' asked Cara.

'Nothing,' I mumbled. 'I really have to leave.'

'Steve, you're hurting about something. Won't you tell me what it is?'

'What're you talking about?'

'I think . . . I think you're afraid to get close to anyone. And sometimes you look at me like . . .'

'Like what?' I prompted when she trailed off.

'Like you see someone else when you look at me. Like you're looking through me.'

The strangest feeling tingled right through me, like my blood was shivering or something. Had I really let my guard down that much?

'You know about my dad dying of a heart attack. Won't you tell me who you've lost? It was someone you cared a lot about, wasn't it?' Cara said.

I opened my mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come.

'My dad and I were very close,' Cara continued. 'It's not something you ever get over quickly.'

'Why're you telling me this?' The words came out in a whisper, low and racked with pain.

'Have you lost someone?'

'My brother. My brother died . . . He was murdered.'

Cara nodded. She was so understanding, and that was the worst of it, because I knew she did understand me – totally. She was like the calm, sane half of me.

'I'm so sorry, Steve.'

I couldn't answer.

'You look so alone sometimes. So hurt,' said Cara softly. 'It reminds me of me.'

And now my blood was howling around my body, racing faster and hotter. I wanted her to stop. Just stop talking. Stop understanding me. My throat was hurting. My eyes were hurting.

Stop talking. Stop . . . STOP . . .

'Steve . . .' Cara said uncertainly.

I stared at her, not daring to even blink. Her fingers crept back to my cheek. Her touch was soft and warm.

'You and I are so alike,' Cara smiled sadly. 'I guess that's what brought us together. Kindred spirits.'

I had to stop her talking. I had to. I kissed her, with what felt like a fist in my chest squeezing relentlessly at my heart. Cara wrapped her arms around me and kissed me with the same kind of lonely desperation. She was right. I was lonely. I'd been lonely all my life – even before my family had shattered into a million pieces. What was it about me that made it so hard for me to get close to anyone? What was it about me that made it impossible for me to make friends and keep them? What was it about me that had me kissing a Cross and no longer wanting to pull away and wipe my mouth? What was it about me that had me falling for someone I should despise?

My hand slipped from her waist to up under her top. Her bare skin was soft as a whisper and as smooth as quality velvet. I'd never felt skin so smooth. The more I touched, the more I wanted to touch. I pulled her close, my hand moving straight to her breast. My blood was roaring, racing, pumping. I was breathless and more turned on than I'd ever been in my entire life. I wanted to do more than have sex. I wanted to make love, to drown in her.

But then I opened my eyes . . . I straightened up and forced myself to concentrate on her skin. Take it in. Sink into it. But I couldn't see her skin any more. Just her eyes, warm and rich brown, smiling at me with understanding. With love.

With love.

She smiled at me. Total trust, love and devotion. It was too much. I was dying in it. I clenched my fists and hit her. Her whole body fell backwards. She looked up at me, too shocked to even cry out. Her eyes, so warm and rich that I just wanted to pour myself into them, were now stunned and hurt. But the love was still there. I knelt down and hit her again.

And then I couldn't stop.

I punched her over and over again before leaping to my feet. And even then I couldn't leave her alone. I kicked out with all the rage erupting inside me. She had no right to make me care about her. I'd show her, I'd show both of us that she meant nothing to me. I kept hitting her over and over, even when she was screaming at me to stop.

Even when she stopped screaming.

I only stopped kicking and punching when I was too physically exhausted to raise my hands or move my feet. Blood covered my knuckles. I wiped the backs of my hands on my trousers. Then I picked up her forgotten blank cheque from the floor. I went to the drawer she usually kept locked and took out all the money and cheque books and pass books and everything else I could find there. Only then did I leave the house, careful not to look at Cara. Not once. Not even a glance. With each step away from her, I grew colder again – which was just the way it should be. I had money and cheques which I'd cash first thing in the morning and then I'd disappear. I was good at that. I'd walked but a few steps when I realized my face was wet. I looked up. When had it started raining? The night glittered with a thousand and more stars, the air warm around my face.

But there wasn't a single cloud in the sky.

Meggie and I hadn't said too much to each other after our bust-up the afternoon before. Now we were both tiptoeing around each other like we were walking on crisp packets. But she had no right to tell me how to live my life.

I lay on my bed with you on my chest, Callie, and I was reading to you. I wanted you to love books as much as Callum and I did.

When the doorbell rang, I decided to let Meggie get it.

'Sephy, it's for you,' Meggie called upstairs.

Two visitors in two days. What on earth was going on? I put the book down and, holding you to me, got to my feet. We went downstairs. It was some man I'd never seen before. A Cross, middle-aged, greying at the temples with a neat, pencil-thin moustache adding a distinguished air to his face. He was good-looking for an older man. The sort of man my mother would admire. He watched me as I walked down the stairs. If he was another journalist, he'd soon be bouncing down the road so fast, he wouldn't stop moving until the day after tomorrow.

'Yes?' I said coldly. 'Can I help you?'

'Persephone Hadley?'

'That's right,' I replied.

'My name is Jack. Jack Labinjah.'

I waited for him to continue. Meggie stood hovering in the background, for which I was grateful. She'd had a bellyful of journalists knocking on her door as well.

'I'm a prison guard,' Jack continued. 'I was with Callum on his last day.'

My blood turned to liquid nitrogen in my veins, freezing every bit of me. I couldn't breathe. A single breath would have had my body crumbling.

'You were with Callum . . ?' My voice, when it finally arrived, was barely above a whisper.

Jack nodded. 'I'm sorry to trouble you, but it's taken me this long to find you. In fact I only managed to track you down because of the birth announcement you put in the paper.'

'Why did you want to find me?' I asked.

'Callum wrote you a letter. He made me promise to deliver it,' said Jack slowly. 'He wrote more than one to you actually, but he didn't want you to have the others. He threw them away. This is the one he wanted you to have.'

And in Jack's hand, an envelope with my name on the front –
Sephy
– written in Callum's bold, slanting handwriting. My hand automatically reached out for it. And the moment I touched it, it felt like Callum was there, standing next to me or watching over my shoulder. No, it was more than that. Stronger than that. It was like Callum was moving around me and through me and I could feel him and smell him and hear his voice whispering in my ear. My legs were turning to water. Meggie rushed forward just as Jack stepped forward to tuck a helping hand under my elbow. Meggie took Callie away from my unresisting hands. I sat down on the stairs, staring at Jack.

'You were with my son? On his last day? You were with him?' asked Meggie.

'I was with him every day until his last day. We became good friends,' said Jack.

'What did he say? What did he do? What was he like? Did he talk about me at all?' The questions tumbled out with a hundred more right behind them.

'He didn't talk about anything else but you.' Jack smiled at me, his smile fading as he looked down at the envelope in my hand.

I couldn't speak. I wouldn't've been able to say a word then, if my very life had depended on it. This man had shared Callum's last few days. He had something I could only dream of. I'd tried so hard to see Callum when he was in prison but I had never got further than the prison gate.

'Tell me why I could never get in to see Callum. Please tell me,' I pleaded.

Jack began to shake his head, but I wasn't going to take no for an answer.

'You must know. You were with him. You worked in that awful place. Why couldn't I see him?' I begged.

'Orders came from high up that you weren't to be allowed to see Callum under any circumstances,' Jack said at last.

'Orders from who? The prison governor?' asked Meggie sharply.

'Higher than that,' said Jack softly, looking straight at me.

'It was my dad, wasn't it?' It might've sounded like a question, but it wasn't. I
knew.

'Let's all go into the living room,' said Meggie. 'Then we can discuss this properly.'

'I can't.' Jack shook his head. 'If it gets found out that I was here, I could lose my job. Like I said, I wouldn't've come but Callum made me promise. I didn't want to deliver that thing.'

'Why not?' asked Meggie sharply.

Jack didn't reply.

'You've read it, haven't you?' said Meggie.

'Yes,' said Jack unapologetically. 'In my job, I can't be too careful. I needed to see just what I was getting myself into.'

'I see,' Meggie said icily.

'And I'm sorry I ever agreed to get involved. I'd rather cut off my hand than deliver something like that but—'

'But you promised.' Meggie finished the sentence for him. It was a well-worn refrain by now. 'What does that letter say?'

Jack shook his head. Callum's letter lay, if not forgotten, then dormant in my hand. Jack had been with my Callum. At this moment, that was more important.

'Did Callum know that I tried to see him?' I asked.

'Yes. I told him,' said Jack.

'Did he . . . did he know how much . . ?' I shook my head. I was going to ask, did Callum know how much I loved him? But how could Jack answer that? Jack didn't know me. I didn't know him.

'All I can tell you,' said Jack, 'is that Callum never stopped talking about you. You were the most important person in his life. You need to remember that.'

'Sephy, I think you'd better give me that letter,' said Meggie.

I pulled my hand away from her, hugging Callum's letter to me.

'NO!' I exclaimed. 'It's mine. It's the last thing I have of Callum's. I'm going to hold onto it and treasure it and no one else is going to get it. It's mine.'

'I have to go.' Jack was already heading for the door. He turned back to me once the front door was open.

'Miss Hadley, I . . . I'm sorry.' And then he was gone.

I wondered why he was apologizing. Didn't he realize he'd given me so much? In my hands I had a gift I'd never dreamed of. A letter from Callum. The last letter he'd ever written – and it was to me.

I was actually trembling as I opened the envelope. It wasn't sealed, the flap was just tucked in. I took it out and started to read, devouring each word, gobbling up every syllable. I read quickly, eagerly at first but I got slower and slower as each word pierced my flesh like a shark's tooth. As I got to the end, the letter fell from my hands. I turned slowly to Meggie, looking at Callie Rose wriggling in her arms.

Our daughter.

My daughter.

I put out my arms to take Callie from Meggie. She handed her over without a word. I sat on the third step and stared down at my daughter. Meggie picked up Callum's letter.

'Don't read it. . .' I whispered.

Without another word to me, Meggie began to read it out loud. I didn't want her to, but my voice had now gone completely. My thoughts had gone. My skin had gone, to be replaced with the one I was wearing now, made from needles and pins and thorns, all pointing inwards.

Sephy,

I'm writing this to you because I want you to know the way things really are. I don't want you to spend the rest of your life believing a lie.

I don't love you. I never did. You were just an assignment to me. A way for all of us in my cell of the Liberation Militia to get money – a lot of money from your dad. And as for the sex – well, you were available and I had nothing better to do,

Maggie's voice began to falter but she carried on reading.

You should've seen yourself, lapping up every word of that nonsense I spouted about loving you and living for only you and being too scared to say it before. I don't know how I stopped myself from laughing out loud as you bought all that rubbish. As if I could love someone like you – a Cross and, worse than that, the daughter of one of our worst enemies. Having sex with you was just my way of getting back at your dad for being a bastard and your mum for looking down her nose at me all those years. And now you're pregnant.

Well, I'm ecstatic. Now the whole world will know you're having my child, the child of a blanker. That if nothing else is worth dying for. Whether you come to my hanging or not, I'm going to announce to the world that you're having my child. MINE. Even if you do get rid of our child, everyone will still know.

But no one will know how much I despise you. I loathe the very thought of you and now when I think about all the things we did when we were alone in the cabin, I feel physically sick. To think I actually kissed you, licked you, touched you, joined my body with yours. I had to think of my other lovers the entire time to stop myself from pulling away from you in disgust. God knows, I'm disgusted with myself but the object of the exercise was your total humiliation – and at least I can console myself with the knowledge that that's what I've achieved. Did you really in your wildest dreams believe that I could love someone like you? You've got more ego than any fifty people I know. And you've got absolutely nothing to be egotistical about.

I've told Jack to deliver this to you only if and when you have our child. I can imagine your face now as you read this and at least that gives me comfort as I wait to die. Once you've had our child and you've read this, no doubt you'll hate me just as much as I hate you. But just remember, I had you first. Go ahead and try to forget about me. And while you're forgetting, you can do something else. Never tell our child about me. I don't want him or her to know who I am or how I died or anything about me. I don't want you to mention my name ever again. That shouldn't be so hard after all the things I've told you in this letter. All the true things. You're probably so conceited that you're telling yourself what I'm saying in this letter isn't true. That I'm only saying this so you'll move on with your life, but I never for a second doubted you 'd do that anyway.

I won't tell you to take care of yourself. You're a Cross who was born with a jewel-encrusted, platinum spoon in your mouth and even if you don't take care of yourself, others will do it for you.

Forget about me.

I've already forgotten about you.

Callum