Die With Me (22 page)

Tom was late. Deliberately so. Entrances were so important and he’d wanted to keep Yolanda waiting, make her feel insecure. He pushed open the door of the Dog and Bone and went inside. He’d first come there many years ago when it was called something else, when it had been down-at-heel and inhabited mainly by a contingent of smelly old men who had the knack of making a pint last most of the evening. Now it was part of the new wave of pubs sweeping across London, not an ounce of brass or etched glass to be seen any more, the dark purple walls studded with dreadful modern oils, all for sale, sofas and chairs dotted about everywhere, instead of old-fashioned fixed banquettes, and big, thick candles guttering on every available surface. It looked like a brothel. Already packed, the noise was deafening, music throbbing through ceiling speakers, the air thick with smoke. He had chosen it carefully. Located in a seedy part of town on the Regent’s Canal, it had no regular local clientele, the majority of drinkers being tourists from some of the nearby cheap hotels, or transients passing through London for a few months. He was sure he and Yolanda would go unnoticed.

He weaved his way through the dimly-lit interior, checking the faces until he eventually spotted what he assumed was Yolanda, the only girl on her own, occupying the centre of a large, brown leather sofa at the back. Her posture was upright, hands at her sides, legs carefully crossed in front of her as if she’d come for an interview. As he approached, her eyes flitted towards him and she smiled hesitantly. He saw she was smoking; something he couldn’t bear. Thank God, if things went to plan, he wouldn’t have to kiss her. He forced a broad smile to his face.

‘Yolanda?’

She nodded, fumbling with her cigarette and putting it down in the filthy ashtray on the table in front of her. He noticed that her nails were bitten to the quick; something else that revolted him.

‘Hi. I’m Matt,’ he said. She gave him another shy smile in return, moving aside to make space for him next to her.

She had loved the two Jason Bourne films and he thought ‘Matt’ would do well enough for her, although he knew he looked nothing like Matt Damon. However, he could tell from her expression, she was pleased. And so she damn well should be. In the normal course of events she hadn’t a hope in hell of having a drink, let alone anything else, with someone like him. Small, sallow-skinned and totally flat-chested, she was as plain as a sheet of cardboard, although her dark hair was nice and shiny – clean, he was pleased to note – and she had large, round brown eyes that looked as though they’d trust the devil. She was dressed demurely in a long-sleeved blue T-shirt that had gone through the wash a few too many times, and a knee-length cotton skirt, with thick black tights and boots beneath. There was nothing improperly tight or revealing, unlike the rest of the tarts in the room who were flaunting their flesh like pros. Yolanda was a mouse by comparison, with next to no make-up and an outbreak of spots on her chin, which she hadn’t bothered to disguise. She looked a lot younger than twenty-one and he wondered if she had lied about her age, not that it mattered.

‘Would you like another drink?’ he said, noticing the half-empty glass of what looked like Coca-Cola. ‘Maybe something stronger?’

‘Please. Thank you.’ She spoke so quietly, he could barely hear her.

‘A glass of wine?’

She nodded, picked up the smouldering stub of her cigarette and started to pull on it again, as if every centimetre counted. Disgusted, he got up and shouldered his way to the bar where he ordered two large glasses of the cheapest plonk. No point wasting good money on her and he wasn’t intending to drink much himself. While the barman uncorked a fresh bottle, Tom glanced over his shoulder through the crowd and saw her staring fixedly at him, mouth slightly open. Catching his eye, she ducked away out of sight. Wasn’t she just the little blushing bride, although he wasn’t bothering with all that crap tonight. She would do very well, he thought, making his way slowly back towards her with the wine, careful not to spill a drop.

Conversation was laboured and almost entirely one-way. He asked her about her work as an au pair, about her family back in Spain, her studies and all sorts of other trivial and tiresome questions. He was having to shout above the noise of the room, repeating himself several times before the stupid girl understood. Clutching her glass tightly as if she was afraid someone was going to take it from her, she nodded like one of those dogs some people have in the back of their car. From what he remembered, her English wasn’t bad but she seemed stunned into near silence, her replies monosyllabic. The whole process was exhausting and he wondered how much more he was going to have to endure. At least the wine seemed to be working its magic. For such a whippet of a thing, she was knocking it back in a hearty manner, getting quite giggly and almost flirtatious, like a silly little schoolgirl, her round, cow eyes on him all the time, as if she couldn’t believe her luck. If she carried on like this, the whole thing would be a piece of piss. The only difficulty was how to get her from A to B.

‘Shall we go somewhere a bit quieter?’ he shouted, after a while. ‘I have a car and I know a really nice little place nearby where we can talk.’

‘No car, thank you. I like here,’ she said, frowning, after he had repeated himself three times.

She seemed to particularly disapprove of the mention of a car. He almost laughed. What did she think he was going to do with her in it? He’d rather jump out of a plane without a parachute than screw the pathetic little bitch. The very thought was absurd.

He stretched out his hand. ‘Come on, Yolanda. It’s too noisy.’

She shook her head looking mulish. ‘No. Is OK here.’

Perhaps he was pushing too hard. Maybe she needed another injection of alcohol to loosen her up. He might even have to give it a few drops of GHB if she carried on being so fucking tricky. Although that might cock up the timing of what he had planned.

‘Another drink? Yes?’ he said, forcing a smile.

She nodded slowly, looking quite sulky, which angered him. She should be bloody grateful that he was paying her any attention at all, stupid fucking little bitch. He tipped the remainder of his wine into her glass and got up to buy another round.

Yolanda watched him as he threaded his way through the packed room towards the bar. The noise was so loud, she wanted to clamp her hands over her ears. She felt tired suddenly and very alone. London was a cruel place. Everything pressed in on her and she felt almost suffocated. London sucks the life out of you, her friend Dolores had said, before going back to Spain for good. Nobody cares. Nobody wants to know, everyone so tense, in a hurry, no time for anyone else. They don’t even look at you as you pass them in the street, let alone say ‘hello’, as people do where she came from. A wave of homesickness flooded over her and she felt tears prick her eyes. What was she doing here with this man?

When they had spoken on the phone and exchanged all of those emails, she had felt he really understood her, that he felt the same way too. She had gone to the library each day to see if he’d sent her a message, feeling ecstatic when there was one, desperate when there was nothing. She hadn’t expected him to be so good-looking or polished. She had pictured someone younger, sensitive, unsure, full of doubt and loneliness, trying to make sense of a difficult life. But this man wasn’t like that. He was confident. Assured. In control. It showed in the way he held himself, in his every move and gesture. He couldn’t disguise it. Everything about him made her want to retreat back inside herself away from him. Men had always made her feel that way, awkward, unattractive, cheapened by the occasional attention and, whatever they said, unworthy. They told such lies. All they wanted was one thing. That’s what her mother had always said, and this one was no different. He’d mentioned his car – she knew what that meant. All the stuff about understanding her had been a sham and, when he wasn’t smiling – which he did a lot – the look in his eye frightened her.

She couldn’t see him from where she was sitting. Hopefully, he couldn’t see her either and it would take him a while to get their drinks. But he would be back. Then, what would she do? How in heaven would she get away? He wouldn’t simply let her go. He’d follow her outside and she wouldn’t be safe from him there. Wondering if she could attach herself to somebody, she looked around at the tables nearby but everyone was deep in conversation. Nobody looked as if they’d be going home for hours. And what would she say, anyway? Can I come with you? Can you see me home safely? They would probably think she was weird. The room was hot. She wasn’t used to drinking – had done it to please him and to give herself courage – and her head was beginning to spin. He’d be back soon with their drinks and a rush of panic swept over her. She had to go now. Before he came back. Spotting an exit at the back of the room, she picked up her bag, slipped her jacket off the nearby rack and dashed outside.

The air was freezing but it was good to breathe after the sweaty smoky atmosphere of the pub. She ducked down as she passed in front of the windows until she was clear, then rushed as fast as she could, slipping, sliding, almost falling, down the short flight of damp steps to the canal. She remembered the way she had come earlier. It was the quickest way back to the tube and anyway there was no time to stop and look at her A–Z. If he found out she’d gone, she was sure he’d come after her. She had to press on. Put some distance between them. Hopefully, he wouldn’t know which way she’d gone.

The path was so dark, the few lights widely spaced, casting strange intermittent pools of orange light on the ground. Eyes streaming from the cold, lips dry with fear, she ran on, the sound of her feet echoing on the concrete. The rank smell from the water was overpowering, making her feel sick, but she couldn’t stop now. The path curved round to the left, following the course of the canal, tall buildings hugging it close on either side, only a few lights on in the windows, nobody around. As she rounded the bend, a dark shape was silhouetted against the light on the path in front of her. It looked like a man but she couldn’t be sure. Was it him? Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, had he found her? Heart pounding, gasping, she stopped, the scream rising from deep inside. She clamped her hands over her mouth before it could come out. It couldn’t be him. She was being silly. Even if he had worked out which way she’d gone, he couldn’t be out there in front of her. There hadn’t been time. Perhaps this person would help. Take her to the tube and make sure she was safe.

‘Please. I need help,’ she called out. Her eyes adjusting to the half-light, she could see now that it was a man, the outline tall and broad-shouldered, the ragged edge of short hair catching the light. But he didn’t move, planted in the middle of the path, legs slightly apart, arms at his side, his face in shadow. He stood so still, he might be a statue. Like the bronze ones of people walking, near the canal by Paddington Station. They had taken her by surprise when she’d first seen them, they were so lifelike. But she didn’t remember any statue along this stretch, certainly nothing in the middle of the path. Would he help her? Should she tell him what had happened? As she went hesitantly towards him she heard the sound of running feet accelerating just behind her and she was thrown to the ground.

There was a crush of half-drunk Australians at the bar and it took a long while to be served. When Tom got back, he couldn’t see Yolanda anywhere.

She must have gone to the loo. Not surprising, after all the drink she had put away. Her bag had gone, but women always took their bags with them when they went to have a pee. It was one of life’s many mysteries why the bag had to go with them everywhere, like a security blanket. His grandmother was rarely to be parted from hers and she had been intensely proud of the fact that it was real crocodile skin, although it was so battered, the poor croc must have been slaughtered a good century before. It had a faceted crystal clasp the colour of a tiger’s eye and it was rigid and upright in a strangely prim way. When he was naughty as a child, it had often been the first thing that came to hand; she had hit him over the head with it more times than he cared to remember, often drawing blood. The brass edges were like a wide, cruel mouth and he used to have nightmares about it opening its lips and gobbling him up into the red leather interior. He remembered discovering it sitting on the floor like an unwanted guest beside his grandmother when he was trying to work out what to do with her body.

He had been waiting for what seemed like a very long while indeed for Yolanda to return when a thickset man with a shaved head, shiny with sweat, plonked himself down beside him on the sofa.

‘Excuse me, someone’s sitting there,’ Tom said.

‘Someone’s sitting here?’ The man mimicked his tone, going through the pretence of examining the seat cushion. ‘You need glasses, mate. There’s nobody here.’ He threw his head back, opening his mouth wide and roared at his own wit. He was drunk, or certainly on his way there. Tom had learnt how to handle himself with bullies like this and it wouldn’t take much to silence the cunt. But he couldn’t risk a scene, couldn’t risk anyone remembering him there.

‘My friend’s sitting here,’ Tom said firmly. ‘She’s just gone to the ladies.’

The man laughed again, almost spilling his pint as he eased his bulk down into the seat cushion, trying to get comfortable. ‘You mean the young bird with the black hair? She skipped out the door over there before you came back.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the exit on the far side of the room. ‘She’s done a runner on you, mate,’ he said, looping a muscular arm around a half-naked teenage slapper with a stud in her eyebrow and top lip, who appeared on his lap from nowhere. ‘Must have rumbled your little game.’

Staring hard at the man for a second, Tom realised that there was no reason for him to lie. Yolanda had escaped. Furious, trying to keep tight control of his facial muscles, he got to his feet. Such a thing had never happened to him. No one had ever dared stand him up before.

‘Thanks for telling me,’ he said forcing a smile. ‘She said she was feeling sick. I’d better make my way home.’

The man ignored him and started to bury his face in the slapper’s tits, making her shriek with delight. Judging from his demeanour, the man was well pissed already. The night was still young and by the next morning, his memory of what had happened in the pub would be blurred or even totally forgotten.

Tom picked up his coat and disappeared quickly out the door into the cold night air. He had to find Yolanda. He had underestimated the little bitch, he realised. In spite of all her pathetic moaning and whingeing and her apparent air of vulnerability, there was a core of toughness. She wasn’t sweet and pliant like the others. They would have done anything for him, but not this one. Her talk of suicide was just a sham to get his attention. She was a cunning, fucking whore and she had deceived him. The thought made him feel violent. He wanted to strangle the life out of her scrawny body, stamp her out then and there, put an end to her, whatever the risk. He couldn’t afford to let her live. She mustn’t get home.

The pub was perched on the side of a bridge overlooking part of the Grand Union Canal. The quickest way to the nearest tube was along the towpath and he had secretly observed Yolanda coming along that way earlier. It wasn’t at all a nice place to walk alone at night, particularly if you were young and female. But half-drunk and new to London, he was sure she would have taken the same route back.

He walked down the steps on the far side of the bridge leading to the canal. The air was cold and damp and a light mist was rising from the water blurring the edge of the towpath. Hemmed in by buildings on either side, the canal curved away like a slick of black oil, reflecting the shimmering light of the moon, which was emerging from behind the office blocks on the horizon. As far as he could see, there was nobody around, the only noise coming from the traffic on the flyover close by.

He was walking fast, almost running. The path was amazingly poorly lit, the lamps casting pools of sickly light, which only seemed to accentuate the deep shadows around. The fishy, stagnant stench from the canal was almost unbearable and he held his coat sleeve to his nose as he went along. Still sure she had come this way – after all, the stupid girl had no imagination – he kept going until he heard a strange, whimpering sound up ahead. It sounded like a dog chained up alone. Wary of what might be in front of him, he slowed his pace, keeping close to the shadow of the high wall that ran alongside the canal. Peering into the gloom beyond, he made out the shape of someone sitting on the ground a little further along. He braced himself for something unpleasant. But as he cautiously drew nearer, he recognised her.

Yolanda. He felt a surge of excitement. Cowering against the wall, her face turning towards him, she stared at him like a small, frightened animal. He walked up to where she sat and looked down at her. She was trembling but he saw the relief on her face as she recognised him. She sat motionless on the bare ground, huddled in her jacket, hugging her knees and clutching her skirt tightly around her. As he looked closer, he noticed that her skirt was practically hanging off her, slit into long tails of fabric. Her tights were also ripped, exposing the pale flesh of her knees and a large part of her thighs. Looking quickly up and down the path to make sure that nobody was around, he knelt down beside her. Something was wrong with her face. As he reached over to touch a dark smear on her cheek, she flinched and cried out. Peering at her in the dim light, he could see what looked like blood running down her forehead and out of her mouth and nose.

‘What happened?’ he said, softly, although seeing no sign of her bag anywhere, he thought he could guess. Serve her bloody right for running off like that. Teach her a fucking lesson, it would.

For a moment she didn’t reply and he repeated the question.

‘Man, two man. He…’ She looked away and started to cry again. ‘They have…’ she gasped, struggling for the word, ‘… knife.’ She gestured as if holding it to her throat.

He wasn’t sure from what she was saying what had happened, not that it mattered. But at least he had found her, although the sight of her revolted him. But he had to quieten her down so as not to attract any unwanted attention. He had to get her out of there somehow before anyone came along and called the police.

Gritting his teeth, he reached forward and stroked her hand. It felt cold and disgustingly wet to the touch. ‘Please don’t cry, Yolanda. I’m here now and you’re going to be OK.’

Whether or not she understood him, his tone seemed to calm her and she stopped crying and started to dab her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. At least he’d found the stupid little bitch. It wasn’t the way he’d planned things and he felt furious with her for trying to spoil everything. But at least he had her now. However disgusting she was, there was no way she would get away from him again.

‘You were very silly to go off like that,’ he said softly. ‘What did you think you were doing?’

She shook her head and immediately vomited on the ground. He looked away until she had finished, wondering how he was going to get her to come with him. If push came to shove, he’d have to pick her up by force, but he didn’t relish the thought of touching her again, let alone holding her.

‘You have water? Please,’ she mumbled, after a moment.

What did she think he was, a fucking packhorse? He shook his head. ‘No water.’ Then he had an idea. ‘But I have brandy. You know, cognac.’ He remembered that the Spanish word was similar to the French. He pulled out the large silver hipflask that had belonged to his grandfather and waved it in front of her, giving her his most warm and gorgeous smile. ‘You want? Make you feel better.’

The smile, or possibly the prospect of more alcohol, seemed to do the trick and she nodded slowly.

‘One minute. I can’t see. I need some light.’ Turning his back to her, he got up and walked over to the edge of the canal. Checking to make sure that they were still alone, he unscrewed the cap of the flask, took a little plastic container from his inside coat pocket and poured it into the flask. It was a shame to ruin decent brandy but there was no other way. Luckily, GHB was tasteless. He came back and knelt down beside her again, sliding off the oval cup from the bottom of the flask and pouring out a large measure of brandy. He put the cup to her lips and slowly tipped it towards her. The first sip made her splutter and cough and she cried out. No doubt it burnt like hell. But she seemed to like it and took the cup in her fingers, draining it in a few minutes.

‘Want some more?’

She shook her head, still holding onto the cup as if her life depended on it. He prised it out of her fingers and shook any remaining drops on the ground. The cup would have her fingerprints on it and he would have to clean it very carefully when he got home. Drying it temporarily on his handkerchief, he clipped it back onto the bottom of the flask and tucked the flask away in his pocket. He must get a move on. He had done a number of experiments with GHB on himself and, when laced with something strong like brandy, the effect could be very quick, particularly on someone as small and thin as Yolanda.

He bent over her. ‘We must go.’

‘You call police, yes?’ She had huddled back against the wall and looked as if she was prepared to stay there all night if necessary.

‘Yes, but not now. Can’t stay here. It’s dangerous. Dangerous.’ He repeated the word, hoping to instil some urgency into her.

‘You think they come back?’

Noticing with pleasure the alarm in her eyes, he nodded. He watched as she struggled slowly to her feet, hugging her sides and leaning back heavily against the wall for support. She closed her eyes and groaned. Fearing that she was either going to faint or be sick again, he backed away. But after a moment, she seemed to pull herself together and took a few unsteady steps towards him before her legs crumpled and she fell forward, hitting the ground hard with her knees. He could see he was going to have to help, although the thought of touching her made him want to retch. He took her by the arm and hoisted her up onto her feet again.

‘Come on, Yolanda. You can do it.’

‘Where we go?’

‘Back to the pub.’

‘The pub?’

‘Yes. We can get help there.’

She nodded as if this was acceptable, leaning her head heavily against him as she allowed him to steer her onto the path. She stank of vomit and brandy but he would have to put up with it for a short while.

It seemed to take an hour to cover a hundred metres. Looking down at her, as they passed under a streetlamp, he noticed with distaste that she had been slobbering all over the sleeve of his coat. No doubt she had got blood on it too. Fucking little bitch. What was she playing at? He tried to pull his arm away but she clung on tight, stumbling into him and giggling now. The GHB was beginning to take effect. He wouldn’t be able to let go of her in case she tipped into the water by herself and ruined the whole damn thing. He would have to ditch his clothes in the morning, which was intensely annoying, but it would be worth it, he told himself. It would all be worth it. He’d make bloody sure it was.

As they rounded the bend, he could see the pub in the distance, overlooking the water. It wasn’t far from there to his car but he doubted that she would make it. She was muttering something to herself in Spanish, eyes closed, head lolling, as he dragged her along, his arms locked around her to stop her falling. She was a dead weight and he was getting tired of supporting her. He could try picking her up properly and carrying her all the way to the car. If anyone saw them together they would probably assume she was drunk or ill, and he was helping her home. But there were too many bloody police crawling around the streets these days and he couldn’t afford to take the risk.

Scanning the horizon, wondering what to do, he noticed the dark outline of a small pedestrian bridge half way along. Although not that high above the water, it would be better than nothing. As he tried to get her to take a step forward, she slipped through his arms and collapsed in an untidy heap on the ground, moaning quietly to herself. She was well gone now. It was all happening too quickly. Furious, he realised that he would have to pick her up and carry her after all. Tucking the remnants of her damp skirt tightly around her thighs, he picked her up in his arms and walked the short distance to the bridge. Why were they always so fucking heavy? God help him if he came across a six-footer.

He was almost half way across when he heard the sound of a bell and looked round to see a cyclist coming fast towards him along the towpath. Fuck. This was all he needed. Hoping that they wouldn’t come across the bridge, he put Yolanda down, propping her against the iron rail for support. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, bent forwards and kissed her. He could taste the blood and vomit on her mouth and felt sick. He waited, listening, and after what seemed ages, he heard the wheels whoosh past on the path followed by another tinkle from the bell, now further on, as the cyclist speeded into the distance.

He straightened up, spat into the water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Still holding her, he gazed at the sky. Apart from a few wispy clouds, it was clear and full of stars. He felt his skin begin to tingle. He was so close now. He wanted to prolong the moment, capture it in his mind just like before. The moon was high in the sky and, as it came out from behind the veil of a cloud, the light illuminated the bridge like a spotlight. He looked down at Yolanda. Her eyes were tightly closed and her breathing almost imperceptible. She wasn’t aware of anything around her now. The moonlight bleached her skin a strange bluey-white and she looked unreal, like a doll.