Eighty Days Amber (28 page)

Not only did he have to escape to somewhere faraway where no one would know him or of him, but he also had to convince his pursuers that he was no longer harmful to them. Sadly, these were not the kind people you could negotiate with or have reasoned conversation with to clear the muddied waters. They were dangerous men.

I only knew one thing: wherever he went, I would be going with him. I was determined that nothing would sunder us apart any longer.

‘You’ll need a different identity, a whole set of new papers,’ I said. ‘And that’s just to begin with.’

‘Not only is that expensive and difficult, but you need the right contacts to set it up properly. You’d require complete professionals, not a back-alley store with would-be inexperienced forgers. And all the guys or organisations I once knew on that side of the law are not the sort of folk I could now run to begging for a favour. They would just give me up,’ he reasoned.

However, as distasteful as it might prove, I could see the glimmer of a solution.

I fetched my handbag and pulled out my current German passport and the identity card that I had been using and handed them over to Chey.

He gave them a long look and then asked, ‘These are yours? You have false papers?’

I nodded.

‘Do they look authentic enough?’

He held them up to the light and studiously peered at them.

‘They look very good, although I’m of course not an expert. But yes, they seem real,’ he admitted.

‘I can get more,’ I said.

‘How?’

‘From the same people.’

‘How much would it cost?’

‘Just our pride,’ I said.

And I revealed to him how I had been provided with the false set of papers by the Network and the work I had undertaken for them.

Chey knew that since our first time together I had been with other men. He had met Viggo, of course, but had quickly realised that the rock singer had been more of a fuck buddy to me, where emotions had not been involved and, anyway, he had taken a liking to the guy and had not been jealous that I had been to bed with him. He must have guessed there would have been others, anonymous pick-ups and solaces for loneliness here and there, but I had never told him the story of the dancers and what we did for rich customers.

‘If I agree to one final performance, I am confident they will provide me with a new set of papers for you to use,’ I said.

He bowed his head.

‘And you think that is the only way?’ he whispered, already aware of the likely answer.

‘Yes.’

He took me into his arms and hugged me close.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but let me be the dancer, let me be your partner this time. You can train me beforehand, teach me.’

We kissed.

‘The client much admired your set on the boat in Sitges,’ I was told by Madame Denoux. ‘He’s been wishing to book you for a repeat performance ever since. You’re lucky.’

‘I’m pleased.’ Actually it was more relief that I felt. I’d feared that in the many months since I had voluntarily dropped off the Network’s radar and catalogue, I might have been forgotten and replaced by new dancers.

‘And when he heard that you proposed a farewell performance on New Year’s Eve, your swansong so to speak, he was absolutely delighted that he would be in a position to make it happen.’

‘And he agrees to all my terms?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Cash at the door, albeit without our commission and the cost of the papers you desire duly deducted, naturally. Your choice of dance and partner, although the client, who is Russian as you no doubt guessed, one of your compatriots—’

‘Not necessarily, I’m from the Ukraine.’

‘Oh.’ I could sense her frowning at the other end of the line back in her New Orleans house.

People always thought we were all the same. Although I’d grown up speaking both Russian and Ukrainian, because of my mixed parentage, they were two distinct languages, and our cultural heritages were very different. But over the years I had grown tired of correcting the people in the West who made that common mistake.

‘Well, he’s the client so who cares about the nationality,
eh? He’s paying and paying well. He’s been told the set will be something truly special.’

‘Oh yes,’ I confirmed hastily, although at this stage I had no idea what Chey and I would be dancing. All three of the scenarios I used to perform with my erstwhile professional partners were fairly elaborate and the fruit of considerable prior training and I didn’t think I could teach Chey all the steps let alone the particular subtleties of the required movements in time. ‘And someone from the Network will meet me on arrival with the documents we ordered?’

‘They will. Why do you require the papers right there and then? We could FedEx them to you in London . . .’

‘I have my reasons,’ I said.

‘Then of course the client has also agreed to the date you specified – New Year’s Eve, although it is at very short notice, Luba. Your terms did make the negotiations rather awkward. Fortunately, he has a residence in Dublin so, as requested, it will all take place in the British Isles.’

That was something Chey and I had insisted on, to avoid facing too many airports and officials with his current documents.

I’d never been to Dublin. Neither had Chey. But we’d achieved our first goal of obtaining a new set of documents for him. Mine had not aroused any suspicion during a few years of globetrotting, so I felt safe to use them again.

The only problem was the second half of the plan. Where to run to and how to disappear and escape the clutches of Chey’s pursuers?

We had a week left to come up with a miracle. And we were clutching at straws.

‘I think we have to rely on the kindness of strangers,’
Chey said. ‘We need outside help. This isn’t something we can manage alone.’

‘Who?’ I asked. I briefly thought of Dominik, thinking as I did so of how attracted I’d been to him in the absence of Chey and the way I had shamelessly approached him in Barcelona. He was a writer, maybe he could come up with something, but then I quickly remembered the strongly autobiographical nature of his book. Another creative man who didn’t entirely rely on his imagination . . . Just like Viggo.

Chey just sighed in response.

I heard the mansion’s front door slam and Viggo and Lauralynn entered the large lounge where we often gathered for drinks together in the evening. They had just spent a whole afternoon finalising overdubs in the studio. After we greeted them, Lauralynn quickly excused herself and went up to her room, exhausted by the repetitive recording process.

Viggo poured himself a glass of bourbon and settled into his usual leather couch. He also looked tired and nothing like the rock god of stage and paparazzi pictures.

‘So what’s up, lovebirds?’ he asked.

I looked at Chey, silently seeking his approval to tell Viggo the sorry state of our affairs. So far, all he knew was that Chey was in some sort of trouble but we had not revealed its specific nature and he hadn’t asked. In fact, he’d seemed rather chuffed at the idea of hosting a fugitive of sorts, but likely assumed it was creditors Chey was hiding from, and not dangerous mafia-connected drug-runners.

‘We’re up shit creek, Viggo,’ Chey said.

Viggo raised a querulous eyebrow.

‘Tell me more, mate.’

Viggo listened attentively to Chey’s story, occasionally nodding sympathetically and refilling his glass, drinking the bourbon straight, with no ice.

‘Wow,’ he finally said when Chey concluded his tale.

‘Wow indeed,’ I mimicked, ever so slightly annoyed by his wide-eyed response and the look of amusement spread across his features.

‘So, if I understand things correctly, you have the means to leave the country for parts unknown, but without some sort of subterfuge to prevent them from continuing to track you down again, it’s worth fuck all?’

‘That’s certainly one way of putting it.’

Viggo chortled.

‘What you need is . . . magic, guys.’

‘Magic?’

‘Yep. Magic.’

‘I don’t get it,’ I said. Chey remained silent, glancing dubiously at Viggo’s smirking face.

Viggo crossed his legs, set his empty glass down and began manically gesticulating.

‘We have to make you disappear. Easy as that!’

‘How would you propose to do that?’ Chey and I asked in unison.

‘Stagecraft, my friends. Stagecraft. Now that’s something I know something about. Did I ever tell you how I loved Alice Cooper when I was a teenager? All his theatrical tricks, the artifice . . .’

‘Viggo, can you speak English?’ Chey asked.

Viggo triumphantly rose from the couch.

‘Mate, leave it to me. Let me think it over, sleep on it, talk it over with Lauralynn maybe, but I already think it’s a
brilliant idea, I really do, and tomorrow morning, hey presto, I will provide you with your means to escape.’

I was nonplussed, thinking he had maybe drunk too much bourbon but then realised I had never seen Viggo drunk. Despite his slim frame, he had the constitution of a horse.

As he left the room, he winked mischievously at me.

Viggo’s mood was just as jovial and as irritating the next morning.

I watched in silence for as long as I could stand it as he capered around the kitchen wearing just his underpants and a smile. Bacon hissed in a griddle pan and he worked the waffle machine with the efficiency of an assembly-line robot until the pile of battercakes formed a tower, Pisa-like, that threatened to tumble onto the tiled floor at any moment. Pans of all shapes and sizes covered the counter top, balanced precariously wherever he had lobbed them in his search for the griddle, and were sprinkled liberally with spilled flour and sugar.

He paused in his mad culinary dance for just long enough to pour a coffee from the filter machine and slide it in front of me as carefully as one might offer a sacrifice to an angry god.

‘So,’ I said slowly, only mildly appeased by the appearance of the hot brew, ‘are you going to share this fine plan of yours any time soon?’

‘Patience, my dear,’ he replied, waving a spatula in the air with a theatrical flourish. ‘We must at least wait for the others to arrive.’

The others? My heart sank. How many people had Viggo confided in?

Chey was still in the shower where I had left him. The fear of going on the run again had made him even more appreciative of his creature comforts and he had begun bathing with the sort of languid thoroughness that I saved for the pool in the basement. And with little else to occupy his time, he spent hours each day working out in Viggo’s elaborate and rarely used home gym. Bar a little of his initial cockiness, he was almost back to the Chey that I had known in New York.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Hello, my darlings,’ Viggo cried as he shooed the newcomers into the house, still holding his spatula aloft like a baton.

Dominik and Summer had arrived, and were looking just as mystified as I felt. Dominik observed Viggo’s state of undress and raised an eyebrow. Summer did not seem even to notice.

She had her violin case tucked under one arm as she always did. Her red hair tumbled loose around her shoulders and a fuzz of tiny wisps stood out from her scalp like a halo, as if she had been walking in a stiff wind or was sorely in need of a new brand of conditioner. I knew from my brief interaction with Dominik that he seemed to prefer his women natural, without artifice, and I had watched the change in Summer since their return to coupledom with amusement. These days, I rarely saw her wearing lipstick.

Lauralynn was the next to appear. She was almost as scantily clad as Viggo, wearing just a buttoned-up men’s shirt that barely covered her arse.

‘Is it laundry day for you two?’ Dominik asked drily as Lauralynn raced over to give him an exuberant kiss on the cheek.

‘An early morning treat,’ she replied. ‘I know how you like a woman in men’s clothing.’

Dominik snorted. Even after all this time I still found his relationship with Summer fascinating. She was not the least bit puzzled to see her friend flirting with her boyfriend, and I was sure that Lauralynn would never dare tease Chey in my presence in quite the same way.

Lauralynn took over in the kitchen and sent Viggo upstairs to put on some clothes.

‘Do you have any idea what this is about, Lu?’ Summer asked, pouring her and Dominik a coffee and then slipping onto the barstool next to me. I caught a faint whiff of her perfume, musky and sweet.

‘He hasn’t told you yet, then?’

‘Not a word. He called before the sun was up and invited us over for breakfast. Brunch is so much more sociable,’ she sighed. Summer was almost as fond of her lie-ins as I was, perhaps a characteristic that we’d both developed over years of irregular employment.

Dominik stood behind her and began running his hands through her hair. No wonder it was such a mess, if that was how she combed it these days. She leaned back against him and purred.

Viggo appeared moments later, dressed this time, though frankly I didn’t think that his jeans and ripped old T-shirt were much of an improvement. Chey trailed mutely a few steps behind him. His expression was forlorn, hopeless, and made me all the more determined to find a solution.

‘Right, kids,’ Viggo announced, rubbing his hands together. He was clearly enjoying this, and if his plan wasn’t any good, I resolved to toss my now cold cup of coffee over
his head to wipe the smile from his face. ‘Have you seen
Romeo and Juliet
?’

‘The Baz Luhrmann version?’ asked Summer.

‘That’s not really the point, my dear. Allow me to explain.’

He looked over at Chey and I, as if asking for permission to elaborate.

‘For God’s sake,’ I hissed, ‘get on with it. Please.’

Viggo grinned.

‘You’re going to fake your own deaths. And we’re going to help.’

Lauralynn looked as pleased as Viggo. They were both bonkers. Summer and Dominik now looked even more perplexed.

‘Did we miss something?’ Dominik asked.

‘Our friends here are on the run, mate. Probably safer if you don’t know all the details. Just in case, you know. If it all goes tits up and we’re interrogated, it’s best if you don’t have anything to tell them.’