Love You Dead (17 page)

When it arrived he picked it up off the carousel and strolled across to the green exit channel, his laptop bag and holdall both over his shoulder. He always travelled light. It was easier to buy
clothes wherever he was, and bin them before leaving. In fifteen years of globetrotting, he’d never owned a suitcase. And for most of his jobs, he was in and out of a place without even
needing to unpack what little he had with him. New York had been an exception; he’d been stuck there far too long, because he’d had to deal with assholes.

He was on his own here. Just himself and a woman who thought she was smart. But she clearly wasn’t that smart. She’d been engaged to a crook with frozen assets, and now she’d
stolen, clumsily, something she could never sell, and for which she was going to die.

Unpleasantly.

Tooth didn’t do pleasant deaths.

‘A friend of mine told me, many years ago, that the secret of life is to know when it’s good,’ Rowley Carmichael said, his arm tightly round Jodie’s
waist, wind whipping their hair about their faces. ‘And right now it’s really good. Incredibly good.’

She stared up into his eyes, her own sparkling brightly in the stern lights of the ship. As brightly as the stars above them, like gemstones in the velvety darkness of the warm night sky; like
the diamond engagement ring on the black velvet pad of the ship’s jewellery store that he had bought her just a few hours earlier, the price of which she had pretended not to notice. Although
she was already thinking of a couple of shops in Brighton’s Lanes where she would get a good price for it in a few weeks’ time. ‘I know it’s corny, my darling, but I feel
like that couple on the
Titanic
– remember that film?’

‘Jack and Rose, weren’t they called?’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.’

‘Weren’t they on the prow of the ship?’ he said.

‘Want to go up to the prow?’

‘Here’s fine!’ Smiling, he raised his flute of vintage Roederer Cristal and clinked it against hers. ‘Cheers, my darling. To the future unsinkable Mrs Rowley
Carmichael!’

‘Cheers to my unsinkable husband-to-be!’ she said, sipping her drink, then standing on tiptoe to kiss him. A long, long, lingering kiss as they both leaned against the stern rail,
whilst she struggled not to let her revulsion show. His mouth was slimy, and his tongue felt like a foraging rodent running amok inside her own mouth. Fifty feet below them the wake of the ship
glistened with phosphorescence before fading into the darkness of the Indian Ocean.

‘I still can’t believe you agreed to marry me,’ he said. ‘Incredible! We’ve only known each other properly for a few days.’

‘I still can’t believe you asked me,’ she replied with a smile.

‘I couldn’t be happier, it wouldn’t be possible,’ he said.

Looking adoringly into his eyes, she was thinking that she could, she could be much happier. ‘Wouldn’t it be romantic to be married on this ship?’ she said.

‘On this ship – you mean – on board?’

She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes! Wouldn’t that be amazing? Just so romantic? I read somewhere that ship’s captains can marry people!’

‘I love your wildness,’ he said. ‘How spontaneous you are! This is crazy! OK, let’s do it, let’s go and find the Purser and ask him the procedure!’

‘God, I love you so much,’ she said. ‘I just love looking at you!’ But as she continued staring at him she suddenly realized who it was he reminded her of. That faint
flash of recognition she’d had on their first date.

Her father.

Below her feet she could feel the slight thrumming of the engines. She breathed in the scents, of varnish, fresh paint, the salty tang of the sea and the occasional whiff of diesel fumes. It was
their first night at sea. The first port of call for the MS
Organza
, after departing her moorings in Dubai’s Port Rashid cruise terminal earlier that morning, was Mumbai in three
days’ time. She was a handsome ship, resplendent in her gleaming white livery, barely one year old, carrying 350 passengers and from the sharp service, it felt there was double that number of
crew. Rollo had already booked a four-week leg of a round-the-world cruise on the ship before they had met. It hadn’t taken much persuading for her to join him.

She’d gone home in the early hours of Friday morning to pack her bags for the cruise, and then had taken her cat to board again at Coriecollies Kennels. Tyson hadn’t been too happy
about that, but then again, he was never too happy about anything. He’d get over it, and she’d make it up to him on her return. She’d also set up the timed feeds for the rest of
her menagerie.

Their cabin was a glorious suite, with a balcony.

‘Did you remember to take your insulin, my love?’ she asked.

He patted the pocket of his white tuxedo, then pulled out the blue NovoRapid injector. ‘Yep!’ He put it carefully back in his pocket.

‘You gave me such a scare the other night. I thought I had lost you – before I’d even properly got to know you. What do you remember about it?’

‘Well, not much. It was a blur. That happens if my sugar levels get too low, I’m not able to think straight and then I pass out. It was my fault, I thought we were going to have some
dinner, so I’d taken my jab and pill. Then somehow we never got as far as the door.’

She grinned. ‘So it was my fault, really! I just couldn’t keep my hands off you. I couldn’t wait until after dinner, I had to have you, then and there. Right there! But, Jesus,
I got so scared when you collapsed on me. The paramedics were really concerned when they arrived, you were delirious. Then I got really angry with you when you refused to let them take you to
hospital.’

‘I just needed sugar. I was fine. God, the thought of dying and losing you when we’ve only just met . . .’

She reached up and kissed him. ‘Don’t ever do that to me again, promise?’

‘I think I learned my lesson.’

‘Which is?’

‘That when we’re in the bedroom together it’s impossible to keep my hands off you.’

‘Don’t ever let that change!’

‘I won’t.’ He caressed her hair, running his fingers through her ringlets.

‘Good!’

‘You know, I still can’t believe we met. I mean, we have so many things in common. Our love of art, opera, theatre, food, wine – and travel. Do you believe in soulmates, my
darling?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t, until I met you. But that’s how you make me feel.’

‘Me too! I think we met before, in a previous life, and now we’ve found each other again.’

‘It’s how I feel, exactly,’ she lied, sweetly.

Shelby had stayed in bed all Saturday, vomiting regularly, and with an intermittent nosebleed. He’d vomited several times more during the night. He awoke, groggily, to
see a concerned-looking Angi standing over him, dressed and holding a glass with a dark brown liquid in it.

‘How are you feeling, my love?’ she asked.

His head was swimming and he felt as if he was going to be sick again. His throat hurt from the acidic bile, which was all he had to puke up the last time, some hours earlier.
‘What’s the time?’

‘Ten thirty. It’s Mum’s sixtieth birthday today, remember?’

‘Urrr.’

‘How do you feel? Do you want to come?’

Her parents lived in Watford. It was a good two to two and a half hours’ drive away. No way could he face that. Nor her deadly dull mother who didn’t like him anyway. He shook his
head slowly from side to side, feeling the roundabouts.

‘I have to leave in a minute. Try to drink some of this.’ She handed him the glass.

‘What is it?’

‘Coca-Cola. I’ve been stirring it to get the fizz out. The sugar in it’ll do you good. You’ve got to get something down you, you need electrolytes. You didn’t eat
anything last night. This will make you feel better.’

She helped him sit up and stared strangely at his face.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Where you cut yourself shaving – on Friday. It’s bleeding again.’

‘It can’t be.’

‘You must have knocked it and opened it up. I’ll get a fresh plaster in a minute. First drink this.’ She guided the glass into his hands and tilted it up towards his lips.

He sipped a little and screwed up his face. ‘Yeccchhh.’

‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘This will make you feel better. You’ve got a tummy bug – there’s a lot of it going around at the moment.’

‘I hope I haven’t given it to you.’

‘I feel fine,’ she said. ‘I’ve prepared two more glasses of this. Try to drink one every few hours, it really will make you feel better.’

‘Coke?’ he said.

‘Trust me. Coke was originally created for stomach ailments.’

‘You’re kidding.’

She shook her head. ‘It was a medicine originally, then people started to like the taste. I always drink it if I’m ill.’

He sipped some more, dubiously, unsure if he would be able to hold it down, and after a few moments, he realized it was actually making him feel a little less nauseous.

‘Come on, get some more down – for me.’

He took a larger sip. Then another. ‘Thank you, nurse.’

She kissed him on the forehead. ‘Don’t go to work tonight. If you give me their number, I’ll phone them and tell them you’re still ill.’

He shook his head. ‘No – I – I’ll see how I feel. I’ll stay in bed and see how I feel later. I can’t skip work again.’

‘I’ll speak to them, explain you’re too ill.’

He sipped some more Coke. ‘This is making me feel better. If I’m not right this afternoon, I’ll ring the emergency doctor.’

‘Phone me if you’re not feeling better and I’ll leave early and come back to you.’

‘You’re an angel.’

She grinned and kissed him again. ‘I know.’

‘Bitch!’

‘You are feeling better, aren’t you?’

‘Come home as soon as you can. I’ve a feeling I might be really randy.’

‘Keep the feeling!’ She waved him goodbye and slipped out of the bedroom. Moments later she rushed back in with a plaster and handed it to him. ‘Sorry, nearly
forgot!’

As soon as she was gone he pushed back the duvet. He’d kept a bandage round his ankle, intending to tell Angi he’d cut it tripping over some boxes at work, if she asked.

Gingerly he swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaned down and removed the bandage.

And stared in shock.

The skin around the bite was swollen, black and yellow and weeping blood.

Was it this that was making him feel so ill? A reaction to the snake bite? What had that thing been?

He dabbed the wound with a tissue, found some antiseptic cream in the bathroom cabinet, applied some and put on a fresh bandage. When he had finished he opened his laptop and started searching
snakes. All he could remember was that the snake was brown and had a black marking on it. There were dozens and dozens of different species and types. He stared at the images without recognition.
He’d only seen it fleetingly, in the beam of his phone torch.

If it was truly poisonous, surely he’d be dead by now, he reasoned. Didn’t poisonous snakes kill you within hours? It was five days now. Maybe the bite was infected and he was
suffering a reaction from that?

He’d see how he felt later.

The bandages had come off, and she looked like shit. Black eyes, her face blotched blue and red with bruises. But . . .

Her nose was brilliant! The kink had gone and now, instead, it was a perfect small, straight nose.

An exact copy of Cassie’s.

The surgeon had done a brilliant job, working from the photograph of her sister that she’d brought in to the Harley Street clinic for her first consultation. On both her nose and her
chin.

For the next two weeks she barely ventured out of her small flat, which was a short distance back from the sea in Brighton’s Kemp-town. And when she did, she was glad of the biting cold,
because she could wrap part of her face in a scarf, mask her eyes with dark glasses and keep a cap pulled low.

Every day, checking in the mirror, the bruising was fading. The sculpting of her jaw the surgeon had performed was a masterpiece. Every day an increasingly beautiful woman was developing in the
mirror, like a photograph in a darkroom tank, steadily coming to life.

Like the photographs of Cassie she studied daily, holding them beside her face in the mirror. As the scars faded, a more and more perfect image of Cassie appeared.

She had blown almost every penny of her childhood savings on this series of operations on her face and body, including money she had stolen over the years from her parents – as well as
money she’d drawn out on the fake credit card she’d obtained – and it had been totally worth it!

And it was worth all the hard work waiting tables at a bistro in Hove in order to be free of her parents and independent.

They might have rejected her throughout her childhood as the ugly duckling, while they doted on Cassie. Poor long-dead Cassie.

But she hadn’t finished with them.

A few weeks later, early on a Sunday evening, when she was certain her parents would be in, Jodie drove in her Mini to Burgess Hill. She hadn’t seen them for months,
ignoring the messages her mother left from time to time, and declining her request to spend Christmas with them.

Instead she’d spent the day alone in her bedsit, bingeing on movies she’d been storing up to watch, getting smashed on Prosecco and stuffing her face with a ridiculously large
Chinese takeaway. She decided it was the best Christmas she’d ever had.

She parked outside the family house and walked past her mother’s shiny new Audi, freshly washed and cleaned – no doubt by her father earlier today – and rang the front
doorbell. The stupid triple
dingdong-dingdong-dingdong
chimed.

Inside, very faintly, she could hear the television.

Then the door opened and her mother stood there, in a baggy jumper, jeans and slippers. And just stared.

She heard her father’s voice above the sound of the television in the living room. ‘Who is it? Are we expecting anyone?’

Her mother continued staring straight at Jodie. As if she was staring at a ghost. Then she began shaking and called out, in tears, her voice quavering, ‘Alastair! Alastair!’