Powerstone (31 page)

‘If that’s what you want. Are you
leaving then?’

‘No, but my hotel is near there,
and I must pick up my bags.’ She leaned closer, allowing him to experience the
warmth of her body. ‘You don’t expect a gal to come to your apartment without
her stuff, do you? After all, I have no change of clothes with me, and I can’t
wear your old jeans for ever!’ She put her mouth against his ear. ‘Denim is a
fine material, but it can be a mite rough with nothing beneath.’

‘There once was a fairy…’ Drew
began, but Irene stopped him with a laugh.

‘And she was called Nough. I’ve
heard that one. Could you take me to the station?’

‘Of course. But there is one
stipulation.’

‘Oh?’ Irene waited for the axe to fall.

‘I’d like you to wear this.’ Drew
produced the box from his inside pocket and snapped it open. The Luckenbooth
brooch was inside, simple, silver and insidiously serene.

‘That would be my pleasure.’
Lifting the brooch, Irene pinned it onto her tee shirt just beneath her left
breast. ‘Although nobody wears brooches nowadays and it does not quite fit in
with the rest of my present wardrobe.’ She had given no commitment, so there
was no reason why she should feel such a charlatan.

Drew stepped back and examined her
critically. ‘I’ve no complaints,’ he said. ‘It looks fine just where it is.’
His grin seemed impulsive. ‘Come on then, what are you hanging about there
for?’

Irene felt nervous as she checked
out of the hotel, but the receptionist only commented on the heavy rain as she
accepted Irene’s cash payment. Lifting her single travelling bag, Irene headed
for the teeming shops of
Princes
Street
before she
returned to Drew’s flat.

Drew was smiling as he opened the
door to her. He had changed into a checked shirt and a pair of neatly pressed,
if slightly faded, corduroy trousers. ‘I’ve got the wine ready,’ he said.

She held up the bottle of
champagne that she had purchased. ‘So have I.’

Unable to function properly
without her daily dose of drivel, Irene persuaded Drew to buy a new television
and they spent the entire evening watching DVDs, with breaks for the news. The
first time she heard the theme music for the News, Irene felt her mouth go dry,
but the police were still jubilant that they had recovered the Crown and were
getting closer to the arrest of the blonde woman.

‘Nasty business, that,’ Drew said
casually. ‘Six killed, a policeman wounded and scores of people hospitalised
with smoke inhalation and minor injuries.’ He stretched out on the chair, ‘I
hope that woman is feeling guilty.’

She was, Irene thought, but
feigned nonchalance. ‘She’s probably living in the South of France by now, on
the proceeds of her robbery.’

Drew nodded. ‘Could be. That
sceptre thing must be worth a few quid. Don’t know who’d buy it though.’ He
shrugged. ‘Maybe she’ll melt it down for gold.’

Irene killed the impulse to tell
him that it was silver-gilt. ‘Maybe she will. She spoiled my day anyway. I
never did get to see the Queen.’

‘Neither you did.’ Drew grinned
across to her. ‘I’d write to her, if I were you, and demand a private
audience.’

They both laughed and Drew opened
the wine. When he pulled two glasses from a presentation box, Irene wondered
briefly if they had been a Christmas present or if he had bought them
specially, decided that she did not care much either way and watched him pour.

‘Nice glasses,’ she said.

‘Edinburgh Crystal,’ he told her.
‘I had to buy them specifically for you, so I hope you feel privileged. My previous
female guests would be more likely to drink lager straight from the can.’

Irene smiled at this
straightforward admission. ‘Classy gals, eh?’

‘Nothing but the best for me.’ He
lifted his glass in salute and for a second Irene saw his face distorted by the
deep red wine. He looked thoughtful, perhaps slightly worried and on an impulse
she leaned across and kissed him.

‘What was that for?’ He touched
his cheek, surprised.

‘For everything,’ she said. ‘And
just for being there.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Drew smiled
across to her. ‘It’s a real pleasure to have you.’

Irene smiled back. ‘You haven’t
had me,’ she reminded. ‘Not yet anyway.’ She was surprised when he looked
almost shocked. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at once. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass
you.’

‘Quite the reverse,’ Drew shook
his head slowly. ‘I’m just not used to drop-dead-gorgeous women saying things
like that to me. I thought that it only happened in films.’

Irene waited for a moment or two,
and then spoke softly and slowly. ‘Oh no, Drew. It happens in real life too,
and thanks for the drop-dead compliment.’ She lifted her glass and sipped,
allowing the wine to moisten her lips. She could feel Drew watching her. ‘Do
you have work tomorrow?’

‘Nor the next day,’ he said
quietly.

‘Good.’ Irene stood up and
stretched slowly. ‘Then there’s no need to rush.’

‘Absolutely none,’ he agreed.

* * *

Irene felt a sense of déjà vu when
she rose early and slipped out of the bed. She glanced behind her, watched Drew
shift slightly to claim more space on the cramped bed and then closed the door.
Her bag lay outside the bedroom. Long and leather, it was battered from hard
usage and plastered with stickers from her travels. Removing every document
that might possibly be used to identify her, Irene stuffed them inside her
spare coat, turned the bag upside down and emptied the contents onto the floor.
Taking only the coat and the empty bag, she left the remainder for Drew to
wonder over and slipped outside. The papergirl stared as she ran down the
stairs.

Rain had cleansed the
Dean
Village
of its summer dust, leaving it baby-bright in the early
sun. Save for the diligent blackbirds, the streets were quiet, so Irene headed
toward the riverbank where she had left the sceptre. Already she felt the
familiar stimulation of anticipation, mingled with sick dread at the prospect
of being caught. She wondered if risk was inherent to every success; perhaps
businesswomen and criminals shared the buzz of high-stake gamblers.

It took only a few minutes to
reach the iron railing at the waterside. She stopped abruptly, staring at the
river. Only two days ago it had been a gentle brown drift, but the heavy rain
since then had raised the level far higher than she had imagined. It surged
across the bank, completely submerging the bed of nettles where she had hidden
the sceptre, and leaping against the wall in which the railings were set.

Irene looked downward as the
torrent washed the optimism from her world. The downside of the gambling buzz
was the speed in which hope malformed into catastrophe. She could not have
calculated the relationship between Patrick and Mary, nor could she have
foreseen the downpour of the last two days. Once again fate had intervened with
her dreams, and she would have to innovate.

The current looked viciously swift
and the river dangerous. Without the nettles as a guide, she could only guess
where she had placed the sceptre. Swallowing, Irene glanced counted her
options. She could give up and fly home as a failure, she could wade into the
water, or she could wait until the river subsided, which, given the fickle
Scottish weather, might be days. The longer she waited, the greater the chance
of discovery and arrest.

Irene closed her eyes. She was
wrong; there was only one possible option. Swearing, she leaned her bag against
the wall, climbed over the iron railings and lowered herself into the water. It
was neither as cold nor as deep as she had feared, but the current tugged
unpleasantly at her legs as she felt her way along the banking. She stumbled
over something hard, and gasped as her foot sank deep into a hole.

‘Shitting hell!’

For the first time Irene wondered
if the holes were natural, or had some sort of animal made them? Irene
flinched; rats were a pet hate; they symbolised the dirt and disorder that she
despised so much. Swearing to combat her fear, she thrust her uninjured left
hand under the water, groping cautiously.

At first she felt only the tangle
of weeds and grass, then the softness of earth and finally she made contact
with something substantial and cloth covered.

‘Got you,’ Irene said, softly, and
knelt down for a better grip. The river swirled around her waist, splashing
upward as she struggled under the surface. She swore, spat out a mouthful of
dirty water, took a deep breath and plunged her arm under again, reaching deep
into the hole.

Once she obtained a hold on the
cloth it was the work of a moment to haul the bundle free. With her hands
trembling, Irene dragged off the sodden coat and stared at the sceptre.
Filtered by overhanging trees, the sun gleamed along the length of the gilded
silver shaft and reflected a thousand shards of light from the crystal orb on
top.

Irene breathed deeply. She held
her destiny in her hands; nobody knew where she was and the future was bright.
All she had to do was reach the
United States
for her life to reach an entirely new level.

‘Hey you! What’s that?’

Irene looked up. Five youths
leaned over the railing, one grinning, the others staring at her. One of the two
girls smiled slowly and pointed. Her accent was broad and ugly.

‘Are you deaf? I said, what the
fuck’s that?’

‘Nothing for you.’ Hastily
re-wrapping the sceptre, Irene glanced to her left, where the river suddenly
descended in the waterfall that she had admired earlier. Then it had been
something to enhance the scenery, now it was a brawling barrier that blocked
her retreat. The banking rose steeply to her right, disappearing under the tall
arches of the
Dean
Bridge
. There was no escape in either direction.

‘Come here.’ The girl obviously
spoke for the rest of the youths, who clustered against the railing. One lifted
her bag, rummaged inside and swore.

‘Just shite.’

‘Nae money?’ Grabbing the bag, the
spokeswoman glanced inside. ‘Gie’s that thing.’

‘Come and get it,’ Irene invited.
She knew that she would have no chance if they all came at once, but gambled
that they would be reluctant to enter the river.

‘You bring it here,’ the spokeswoman
ordered. ‘And I’ll have that too.’ She pointed to the Luckenbooth brooch that
was pinned to Irene’s breast.

Irene looked at them for a long
minute. Each face crammed fifty years of cynical experience into its sixteen
years of life. The boys wore hooded tops and baggy trousers while both girls
sported long-peaked baseball caps. The spokeswoman had her hands deep in the
pockets of her fringed white jacket.

Swearing loudly, the taller of the
boys swung himself over the railings and plunged into the water. He landed
clumsily, slipping on the uneven ground, and Irene swung the sceptre in a
frantic round-arm blow that caught him across the head. She thrilled at the
contact and as he stumbled, shouting, ‘that was sair.’ Irene hit him again,
venomously, so he fell face first into the river. Dirty water cascaded,
droplets hanging for a second, glittering in the sunlight before dropping to
the disturbed surface.

‘You bitch!’ Lifting a stone, the
first girl threw it at Irene. ‘We’ll kill you for that!’ She vaulted the rail
with ease, landing lightly in the water. ‘Get her!’

The other youths followed,
splashing onto the flooded riverbank in a flurry of spray and a volley of
language more foul than Irene had ever heard. She hit at one, and then stepped
backward, stumbling as her feet left the bank and thrust into the deeper water
of the river.

Now it was Irene’s turn to swear.
She staggered, nearly falling as the spokeswoman aimed a punch for her throat.
Irene jerked back, further into the river, and glanced sideways. She could see
the lip of the waterfall, swollen by the rain into an ear-battering deluge.

‘Oh Jesus Lord!’

The second girl pulled something
from her pocket, fingered a switch and a three-inch long blade flicked out. She
circled her wrist, feinted for Irene’s face then slashed sideways at her
stomach. One of the boys giggled high-pitched and jumped to her side. ‘Cut her!
Rip her open!’

Irene did not see Drew arrive
until the furthest youth yelled and fell suddenly quiet. The second boy turned around,
swearing. Drew blocked his kick with a sweep of his foot, scraped the edge of
his shoe down the youth’s shin and stamped down hard. When the boy roared, Drew
rammed straight fingers into his throat.

‘Oh Jesus Lord,’ Irene repeated.

Thrusting the sceptre back inside
its dripping cover, she stepped back into deeper water, turned and ran. She had
noticed that there was a slight lip along the very edge of the waterfall, a
smoother ledge of shallower water. Either she chanced the lip, or she tried to
explain to Drew exactly what she was doing. Irene knew that she could not cope
with discovery and imprisonment; she must escape.