Powerstone (22 page)

‘This is the hard part,’ Irene
said as she walked across
Bow
Bridge
. She liked to pause on the apex
of the arch and look backward toward the wooded Ramble with its crazy paths.
There were always birds here, candying the air with their calls. Patrick
nodded. He looked much more at home in Central Park than he had done in
Scotland, a New Yorker in New York, with his black baseball cap tilted back on
his head and his tee-shirt boasting the New York Jets logo. He also fitted his
American role far better than his Irish, with all the historical baggage that
country appeared to pile onto its exiles. ‘You’ve got it all covered,’ Patrick
said, and gave that enormous grin that had first captivated her.

They walked on, skirting the
Lake
as they headed toward
Cherry Hill
. Joggers panted past them and a
young mother stopped to talk to the baby in her pram. Everything seemed so
normal that Irene could not believe the enormity of the task that she was
contemplating. She was planning to steal the Crown Jewels of the Queen of Great
Britain.

The thought was suddenly so
frightening that she wanted to cancel everything and run away. She had lived so
much of her life on a second best basis, never quite reaching the targets that
she had set, but always fighting, clawing her way to get somewhere. She had
entered
The
Neophyte
determined to win, despite protestations to
her work colleagues that she was merely broadening her experience. The more
progress she had made, the more positive she had felt, until she had thrown up
her job and staked everything on victory.

Defeat had sickened her. Reaching
for the stars, the moon had not satisfied her. If Ms Manning had not offered a
second chance, Irene was not sure what she would have done. But now her life
had altered. She looked sideways at Patrick, trying to recapture her feelings
for this man, but knowing that she could never trust him again.

Patrick looked back, his arm
draped around her shoulders and he squeezed reassuringly. ‘It will be
astounding,’ he said. ‘In one month you will have pulled off one of the most
outrageous undertakings that the world has ever seen. We will have shaken the
throne of
England
and you’ll be one of the richest
women in the world.’

The words sounded good. Irene
could not care less about the throne of
England
, or the throne of
Scotland
for that matter; it was the richest woman title that she wanted. She knew that
she was playing for very high stakes, for if she failed, God only knew what the
British would do to her. They could not cut off her head or anything, not in
the 21st century, but they would probably throw her in jail forever.

For a second Irene contemplated
herself chained to the wall in one of the dark dungeons of
Edinburgh
Castle
, with a hooded jailer throwing scraps of bread to her.
The Honours were centuries old and nobody had ever managed to steal them; what
made her think she could succeed? She shivered in sudden fear, but the sights
of
Central Park
helped her shake away the gloom.
She was from a country where anything was possible. The
United States
had won her freedom from the jaws
of the British lion; prising trinkets from its paws was surely easier.

‘Come on, Patrick,’ she
challenged, wriggling free and dancing ahead. ‘I’ll race you up
Cherry Hill
.’

It was good to run in
Central Park
, to hear Patrick’s whoop as he
followed and to know that he allowed her to win. When they reached the top of
the hill they threw themselves onto a bench to admire the view of the
Lake
. An elderly man smiled to them
and made a comment about enjoying their youth while they could, while a middle
aged woman stopped to peer at Irene.

‘Were you not on a television
show?’

Irene shook her head. ‘Not me, I’m
afraid,’ she denied the accusation and deliberately embarrassed the woman by
reaching across to kiss Patrick. He responded with so much enthusiasm that they
grappled for a few minutes before she broke free. The woman was no longer
there.

‘This is better,’ Patrick said.

‘Just like it used to be,’ Irene
agreed, adding quickly, ‘before I entered that foolish competition.’ She had
enjoyed that kiss, strangely, and briefly wondered if things could return to
normal.

They were quiet for a few minutes,
until Patrick said, ‘do you know, Irene, I don’t think that you did lose. I
think that Ms Manning wanted to put somebody on a final trial and that Kendrick
guy wouldn’t have the balls to do anything illegal. He’s only holding the fort
for you.’

Irene toyed with the idea for a
few minutes. It felt good. She pushed herself closer again, sitting hip to hip
and arm linked in arm, until her innate restlessness forced her to stand up.
‘Come on Patrick; let’s walk.’

They passed the statue of the
Falconer, dodged the traffic by
72nd Street
and ascended the hill at Strawberry Fields with its
memory of John Lennon before heading to Eaglevale Arch and the Naturalists
Walk. Irene slid her hand around Patrick’s hips and cupped his buttock. That
felt good, too, she decided, and she ran her thumb over her nails. Maybe she
should make him get a matching tattoo on the other side. The prospect of
scratching out Mary was delicious.

‘
Edinburgh
was ace,’ Irene said, ‘but you can’t beat
New York
.’

‘Let’s grab a burger,’ Patrick
suggested, so they reversed their direction until they found a stand near the
Tavern in the Green and lay on the grass in the Sheep Meadow, enjoying the
Manhattan
skyline.

‘Is there beer in the fridge?’
Patrick asked. ‘Real beer, not that British stuff.’

‘Real beer,’ Irene confirmed. ‘Golden
honey in colour and cold as an Arctic winter.’ She looked over to him, tipped
forward his baseball cap and smiled, discovering anew why she had fallen for
him. Mary had been a bad episode, but it was past.

‘Real beer,’ Irene repeated, ‘and
a real firm bed.’ Taking him by the hand, she headed for the
East 66th Street
exit and
Fifth Avenue
.

It felt right, walking through the
streets of
New York
, with the purposeful bustle and
the sense of achievement, good to be part of a city that looked to the future
rather than dwelling on its history. Irene moved faster here, held her head high
and swung her arms. Patrick hailed a cab and they clambered in. Exchanging
pleasantries with the driver as she gave him directions, Irene revelled in his
New Jersey
accent.

‘I’ll be glad when this is all
finished,’ Patrick said, ‘and we can get back to normal.’

‘Normal?’ Irene watched the tall
buildings that soared up to a nearly hidden sky. ‘Change is normal.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Patrick told
her. ‘This is how it should be.’ As the cab stopped at a red light, he gestured
toward a construction site, where yellow cranes swayed and a swarm of workers
were busily erecting another spectacular building. A green-and-yellow billboard
proclaimed ‘In one year, this will be the Manning Manhattan Art Centre.’ In
smaller letters beneath was the message, ‘For further information, try our web
site or contact Kendrick Dontell, Project Manager.’

The name drove the breath from
Irene even as the cab moved forward. The pleasure of the day left her, being
replaced by a sickening sense of failure. She had lost
The
Neophyte
competition, despite all her best efforts. She was a failure, a loser, a
plaything of Ms Manning, who offered her promises while Kendrick enjoyed the
luxury of success and power.

‘We can’t fail, Patrick,’ she
heard the grit in her own voice. ‘We must pull this Scottish thing off.’

‘We will,’ the pain was reassuring
when Patrick squeezed her hand. His eyes were intense. ‘You can do it, Irene,
and I’m with you all the way.’

‘Let’s go home,’ Irene was
suddenly desperate for the physical security of this man’s body. She needed him
to hold her, to tell her that everything was all right.

They nearly ran from the cab,
paying the driver with a large denomination bill and leaving without waiting
for the change. Nodding to Mark the commissionaire, Irene jumped into the
escalator, admired herself briefly in the brass mirror that covered one entire
wall and pulled Patrick in beside her. She pushed the number eight button,
allowed Patrick a brief fondle and tumbled out at the door of her apartment.

It seemed to take an age to locate
her key and then they fell inside, laughing together as if they were teenagers.
They undressed as they crossed from the front door to the bedroom, leaving a
trail of clothes in their wake. Both were naked when they reached the giant
bed, but it was Irene who took the initiative with a passion for Patrick that
she had not felt since she first entered
The
Neophyte
.

He seemed surprised at first, but
she knew how to manipulate his body, so he was soon responding, his hands
exploring and caressing in all the familiar ways. Her hand sought out that
tantalisingly offensive tattoo, curled into a claw and dug in deep. Patrick
reacted as she knew he would and Irene forgot all about Ms Manning and
The
Neophyte
and the Scottish Honours for a space and entered a different
world.

‘That was intense.’ Patrick lay on
his back, staring at the ceiling. Turning his head, he grinned over to her.

‘Just a bit,’ she agreed. She
smiled back, allowing her eyes to drift across his body. She liked to watch the
bulge of his biceps and the smooth chest of which he was so proud.

‘That’s the best it’s been for a
long time,’ Patrick sounded serious. ‘Sometimes I thought we would never get
back to that again.’

‘We experienced a glitch,’ Irene
shrugged away bad memories. ‘We were too busy.’

Patrick nodded. He struggled to
sit up, and pulled her head onto his stomach. She lay there, luxuriating in the
feel of firm muscle beneath her ear.

‘It will be better when all this
is over,’ Irene said. ‘We will have everything that we’ve always wanted.’ She
lay still for a few minutes, allowing the daydreams to dominate. She could see
the penthouse suites, the chauffeur driven limousines and the clothes from Chanel
and Christian Dior, Geoffrey Beene and Morgan Le Fay. Irene smiled; yes, Morgan
Le Fay; that would suit her height. For a moment she imagined herself entering
a board meeting in a chic French dress, with all the men’s eyes admiring her as
she gave cutting insights into the future of the Armstrong Corporation, then
she realised that Patrick was stirring beneath her.

‘Ready, honey?’

But Patrick could never be ready
for the storm that Irene could create. She left him sleeping on the bed,
contemplated his recumbent body with a slightly regretful smile and stepped
into the kitchen. She always needed coffee after sex.

Irene opened the cupboard and
checked her supply. She kept a variety, from the Wal-mart brand that she used
every day to the more specialised blends that were retained for special
occasions. Today she selected her favourite Columbian and measured out two
mugs. Even the smell was invigorating, so she was humming as she waited for the
machine to complete its work.

Without realising it, she had been
listening to the slow chimes of Patrick’s cell phone. Now she padded through to
the hall and raked through his discarded clothes until she located the phone in
a pocket of his jacket.

She switched it on.

‘Pat?’ The voice was urgent. ‘Are
you free tonight?’

Irene replaced the phone in
Patrick’s jacket and walked back to the kitchen to pour herself a mug of
coffee. She slipped slowly, glancing back to the bedroom where Patrick still
lay across the bed. She shook her head slowly, for the voice on the telephone
had been that of Mary O’Neill.

The coffee tasted bitter as she
returned to the bedroom. Patrick looked up and smiled.

She smiled back. ‘Coffee? Do you
want some?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll have
something stronger, I think.’ He got up slowly, rubbing at his latest
collection of scratches. ‘And I’ll have a shower, I think.’

‘You do that,’ Irene watched as he
padded naked to their lounge and poured himself a stiff shot of bourbon. ‘Your
cell phone was ringing, so you’d better see who it is. I’m going for a walk.’

Patrick tossed back the bourbon
and poured himself another. He nodded. ‘Coffee and a walk. That means that you
are thinking about something.’

‘How well you know me,’ Irene
flattered. Suddenly anxious to be out of the house, she pulled on a pair of faded
blue jeans and a white tee shirt, slipped into her oldest and most comfortable
sneakers and threw a very out-of-season leather jacket on top. Lifting her bag
from its repository at the back of her favourite chair, she pulled the door
quietly shut behind her before she started to swear.