Dishonored (22 page)

“No!” She backed away. “Please don’t! I…” She stood quickly, frightened by her response and tugged her hands away from
him. “We mustn’t! Please, Rami!”

“But, Jane!” He reached out and caught her, pulling her to him.

“No!” She jerked away. “Please, no!” For a moment they stood like that, suspended in time, confused, frightened. Then Jane
ran. She held her dress and ran blindly toward the lights in the distance. She stumbled several times and nearly lost her
footing, she heard the cry of his voice behind her but she didn’t turn, she couldn’t turn.

Onto the grass she ran, the electric light sweeping over the lawns, her figure cut out against the dark shapes of the trees,
she ran on, up the steps of the terrace and into the safety of the noise and laughter spilling out from the club into the
night air. She heard Phillip call her and gripped the wall for support.

“I’m out here!” she shouted. “I’m just coming in!” Her voice wavered but she held on to it, summoning all her strength. She
stood straight and smoothed her dress, taking a deep breath to compose herself.

“Is dinner served?” she asked from the doorway, smiling and blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the glare. Phillip walked
over to her, taking her arm. He was drunk, had hardly noticed she was gone. “Yes, my darling,” he said. “Dinner is served!”

“Oh good!” Jane somehow managed to say. “I’m absolutely starving!” And together they joined the rest of the gang and went
in to eat.

* * *

London was cold. The summer had died a death in mid-July and the country shivered in an unusually chilly spell for the time
of year. It was seven-thirty
P.M.,
the night of Mitchell Harvey’s gala dinner, and Suzanna Harvey lay in bed with the blinds drawn, the covers pulled up over
her head. Her evening dress was still in its box, it hadn’t even been pressed, and the clock by the side of her bed bleeped
incessantly as the alarm went off. She came to for a few moments, heard the rain on the windows and then rolled over and blanked
out again.

Downstairs, Mitchell poured himself another whisky and paced the floor. He swung around with the knock on the door.

“Enter!”

Suzy’s maid came in and hovered by the door, nervously fiddling with her fingers. “Mrs. Harvey is still asleep, sir,” she
said, losing her voice halfway through and having to clear her throat. “I’ve tried to wake her but I can’t seem to…”

“For God’s sake what is wrong with you people? Can’t you do anything? Christ!” Mitchell looked at his watch. “I’ll have to
go and fucking get the slag up myself!”

The maid winced at his language and hurriedly backed out of the door as he came toward her. She pressed herself against the
wall and felt the force of his anger as Mitchell banged past her and into the hallway.

“Suzanna!” he hollered up the stairs. “Get up, Suzanna! Now!”

He stormed up and the maid ran along the corridor to the kitchen where she locked the door. She had seen one of Mr. Harvey’s
rages before and they scared the living daylights out of her.

Upstairs, Mitchell banged the door open and walked into Suzanna’s bedroom. “Jesus Christ!” He strode to the window, drew the
blinds and then walked across to the bed. He yanked back the covers. “Get up, Suzy!” he shouted.

She rolled over and opened her eyes, staring blankly up at him, then she covered her head with her arms.

“Did you hear me!” Suddenly turning, he grabbed the alarm clock and smashed it against the wall; it stopped bleeping.

“What…?” Suzy. eased herself up into a sitting position. She shook her head to try and clear it.

“Oh Christ!” Mitchell saw the state of her. “You fucking bitch!” he lashed out and swiped her across the face. The blow knocked
her sideways but she hardly noticed, she lay on the bed and looked up at him with her glassy, unseeing eyes. Mitchell had
to turn away to stop himself from punching her. Picking up an empty bottle of vodka, he closed his eyes for a moment, the
muscle in the side of his face twitching as he tried to control himself. “What else have you taken?” he shouted, turning back
and taking her shoulders. He shook her. “Suzanna? What else have you taken?”

She looked at him, confused, and he let her go. She slumped down. “Fuck you then!” he spat. “Go ahead and die, you stupid
bitch!” He walked away from the bed but stopped at her dressing-table. He picked up the phone. He didn’t want her to cop it,
he couldn’t afford the scandal. He dialled his physician and spoke quickly, giving instructions. He wanted her taken care
of, out of the way for the moment. He didn’t want any more embarrassment, she was too much of a liability.

“No, not tonight, in the morning. I’m pretty sure it’s just booze. Yes, at the clinic.” He hesitated before answering the
next question. His doctor was right, he could ring his solicitor, get her certified in the next week. He glanced across at
her. No, he might need her, later, she was well connected and could be useful again. “No,” he said. “Not yet. Just dry her
out, get her straight.” He took one of the small cigars he smoked out of his top pocket and lit it up. “For as long as it
takes,” he said. “Yes, months if that’s necessary.” He flicked his ash into a small Meissen tray on the dressing-table. “Right,
I’ll tell the staff to expect you then.” He hung up. That taken care of he felt mildly vindicated. He hated the bitch, always
had, after the initial triumph of marrying into society had worn off.

“Goodbye, Suzanna,” he said, crossing to the door. “Sleep well.” And looking back at her pathetic body, slumped in a heap,
he walked away from her, smoking his cigar and dropping the ash on the carpet.

Suzanna came around several hours later. She opened her eyes, a blinding pain shot through her head and a surge of panic rose
in her chest. God! What the hell had happened? Sitting upright, the sharp pain went down to the back of her head and she put
her hands up, clutching the base of her neck. Nausea rose in her throat and, leaning over the side of the bed, she retched
violently. Nothing but bile came up; she was completely empty. She rested back, breathless and dizzy. Then she remembered,
remembered it all and the panic started again. She dropped her legs over the side of the bed, groped for her dressing-gown
and stood, gripping the bedside table for support.

Mitchell’s gala dinner. She looked at her watch, her heart pounding in her chest. It was eleven-thirty, the blinds were open
and the night stared in at her, black and intrusive. It was too late to do anything, he must have had to go without her. She
took a step forward, her legs weak, and glanced down. She saw the alarm clock. “Oh God,” she murmured. Her head was throbbing.

Making it over to the dressing-table, she looked in the mirror. The side of her face was swollen, the skin distended with
fluid and a bruise had begun, under her eye and spreading down over her cheek bone. He must have given her a hell of a smack.
She put her finger up and touched the swelling. It was so sore she winced. Dropping her hand down on to the dressing-table,
she knocked the small dish by the phone, saw the ash, Mitchell’s cigar ash, and her body froze. He always smoked when he talked
on the telephone. Who had he called? From up here in her bedroom? She dropped her head down, suddenly sick and dizzy. Then
she looked up and faced herself in the mirror. He is going to get rid of me, she thought, quite coldly and rationally. She
knew Mitchell’s ways, she knew how he operated.

She took a breath to steady herself. Her reflection stared back at her, sad and haggard, a disappointed face. She closed her
eyes. “Oh, Christ, Phillip!” she whispered. “I need you, I need you so much.” A warm tear fell on to her hand and she put
it to her mouth and licked it. She looked at herself again. I have to get away, she thought, I have to escape him. She straightened
and held her head up. I must leave, I have to. She took another big breath, filling her lungs and holding it for a few moments,
she let it out slowly, watching her face in the mirror. It made her feel better, marginally, and she did it again and again.
A minute or so later, she let go of the dressing-table and stood alone, her back straight, her head up. She knew where she
was going; she only wished she had done it years ago.

Crossing to the bed, she took off her robe and nightdress and went into the bathroom. Her hands shaking, she ran a hot bath,
cleansed her face, packing her things quickly and neatly into a bag, then immersed herself in the bath. Clean, she came out
of the bathroom, packed an overnight bag, dressed and made up her face. She had stopped trembling, the fear and panic had
hardened into anger, into her fight for self-preservation and the adrenaline pumping around her body gave her incredible strength.
Ten minutes on she was dressed and ready to go; there was one last thing to do.

Downstairs in Mitchell’s study, Suzanna went to his desk and took out the small silver box she knew he kept there. She turned
it over and read the number of the safe engraved on the back. Mitchell thought she was stupid, he never knew how much she
observed, took in. She went to the drinks cabinet, clicked open the false door at the back of it and unlocked the safe, her
ear close to it, listening for the clicks. She counted, gently turning the dial, holding her breath. The safe opened.

Placing her gloved hand inside, she took out the contents and laid them carefully in the vanity bag she had open on the floor
beside her, counting as she did so. The last thing she removed was the velvet bag with her jewelry in and she smiled as she
placed it on top of the money; Mitchell loved her jewelry with a peculiar lust. She closed the safe, re-locked it and replaced
the door. Finally she stood.

She walked out into the hall and, certain of her solitude, she opened the front door and stepped out, walking down the steps
of the Regent’s Park house onto the street. Thank God they were in London for the dinner, she thought, turning up the collar
of her jacket and heading off onto the main road to find a taxi. She shivered and clutched her bags a little tighter. If they’d
been in Wiltshire, Christ knows if she would ever have got away alive.

P
HILLIP ROLLED OVER IN BED AND IGNORED THE KNOCKING AT
his door. It was five a.m. and it wasn’t time to get up.

“Go away!” he called, pulling the covers up over his head. “Bugger off!”

But the knocking increased.

“What the bloody hell…?” He sat up and threw the covers back, reaching for his dressing-gown and striding across to the
door. He yanked it open.

“What the devil is all this about?” he demanded. “It’s five
A.M
.!”

“Please, sahib, there is a call for you.”

“Well, why the hell didn’t you tell me through the door?” Phillip put his hands up to his face and wearily rubbed his eyes.
“You people are so bloody incompetent!” He sighed. “Who is it, bearer?”

“A lady, sahib, calling from abroad.” The bearer lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to say, sahib, in case memsahib was woken.”
Phillip coughed. It had to be Suzanna. He flushed and said, “You were right, well done.”

The bearer folded his palms and bowed his head. “Please, sahib, she is waiting for you to go to the telephone.”

“Right, erm…” Phillip glanced back at the bearer from the doorway of the sitting-room. “Best not to mention this to the
memsahib.”

“No, sahib, thank you, sahib.”

Phillip turned, silently clicked the door shut behind him and walked to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Phillip?”

His stomach flipped. “Suzanna! Where are you? What’s happened, why are you ringing?” He had told her where he would be but
had never given her his number.

“I’m in Switzerland.”

“With Mitchell?”

“No, alone.”

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He heard her silence down the line and knew she was weeping.

“I’ve left Mitchell,” she sobbed, “I had to. I got on the first plane out of London!”

“Oh Jesus!” Phillip slumped down into a chair. He didn’t know what to say, how to react. This was his worst nightmare, it
could ruin everything. Gripping the receiver, he said, “What are you going to do?”

Suzanna took a breath. She had stopped crying but her emotions were like a rollercoaster and she would stop and start weeping
without reason or dignity. “I’m coming to India,” she said weakly, “I’m leaving for Delhi tonight.”

Phillip held his breath. He held down the panic that seized him and threatened to overwhelm him, making him say things he
would regret. He clenched his jaw.

“Phillip?” Suzanna cried. “Are you still there?” Her voice was unstable, the tears threatened again.

“Yes, of course I’m still here.” He knew that he loved her more than the world and yet at this precise moment he hated her.
He would have to go to Delhi to sort her out, organize things for her. He couldn’t leave her in this state, God knows what
she’d do. The burden weighed heavily, the thought of it wore him down. “I’ll come to Delhi,” he said, “I’ll leave this afternoon.”

Suzanna on the other end began to weep again and the fleeting moment of hatred passed. Phillip’s heart ached at the sound
of her. “Don’t cry, baby, please, don’t cry,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you, I promise.” He glanced out of the window
at the beginning of the day. He would tell Jane he had a meeting, get the next flight and be gone for a couple of days. He
could afford a couple of days out of his schedule but not much longer, though. He hoped to God she was sorted in a couple
of days.

“Suzy, I’ll be there by tonight,” he said, “I’ll be at the airport tomorrow to meet your plane.” And without another word,
he hung up.

Phillip tipped the boy who had carried the luggage up as Suzanna walked across to the window in the sitting-room of their
suite and flung it open. She stepped out on to the balcony and wrapped her arms around her body. Despite the heat she hadn’t
been able to get warm since she had left England; the fear of Mitchell chilled her to the very core. She looked out at the
gardens of the hotel, the sight of Delhi in the heat-hazed distance, and shivered. She waited for Phillip.