The House That Jack Built (36 page)

    Another pause. 'I don't know… talking's as risky as writing, I'd say.'

    'I think I know what you mean. That's why my friend and I want to know more. Listen, I'll come clean with you. I'm a psychic sensitive. I've visited Valhalla, and I've had some pretty unpleasant experiences up there.'

    'Psychic, huh?' asked Harry Rondo, suspiciously. Effie looked away. She didn't want to think about Pepper's experiences up at Valhalla. She kept picturing her bare legs pedalling in the air, and Craig's tightly-clenched buttocks.

    'Mr. Rondo, if you're trying to tell me what I think you're trying to tell me, then Valhalla needs to be cleansed. All of its psychic disturbances put to rest. But I do need to know a whole lot more about Jack Belias' background; and what he was really like.'

    This time, Harry Rondo paused so long that Pepper thought that he had hung up. Then, with his voice lowered, and trembling a little, he said, 'You want to know what he was really like? He was Satan incarnate, that's what he was like.'

    'Satan?'

    'Not too strong a name for him, no ma'am. I never met any man in the whole of my life who gave off an aura of evil like Jack Belias. 'Course, women loved it. He could make any woman do what he wanted, just by lifting his eyebrow. He used to take other men's wives, and he used to flaunt his conquests openly. Then, when the men played cards against him to get their revenge, he used to fleece them of their fortunes, and leave them broken. The men he ruined. Rich, confident men. Men with beautiful women on their arms, and yachts, and everything that money and breeding could offer. He brought them low. He humiliated them in front of their friends. And he took everything. He went into George Michel's chateau once and personally tore down these forty-foot high velvet curtains because Michel owed him so much money. He reduced some of the richest men in the world to the gutter, one after the other. Sometimes they killed themselves; one or two of them tried to kill him. But you can't imagine the misery that man trailed in his wake. He visited Deauville, Cannes, Aix-les-Bains, la Baule, Biarritz… smooth and charming most of the time, although they say he had an evil temper, too, if you tried to cross him. He went through all of those places and he left dead and ruined people behind him, like a plague had passed through.'

    'But why did he ruin so many people?' asked Pepper. 'What was his motivation?'

    Harry Rondo coughed. 'You still don't get it, do you? There was no motivation. He did it for no other reason except that he could.'

    

    

    Craig ordered a vodka martini on the rocks and drank most of it straight down, like a man who has just escaped a potentially fatal accident. They were sitting on stools at the bar of the Hudson Inn, waiting for their table. They had booked for eight o'clock but Craig hadn't arrived back from Valhalla until a quarter after eight, grimy and tight-tempered and badly in need of a shower. Their table had already gone to another couple when they finally arrived; one of the best tables in the large oak-beamed dining room, in a brick alcove surrounded by flowers.

    The maitre-d', a small smooth man with well-polished hair, had tried to mollify Craig with an offer of free cocktails while they waited, but Craig had told him with deadly (aim that he wanted his table and nothing else. Effie had dug her fingernails into the palm of his hand and said, 'Craig, don't. I don't want a fuss. Otherwise I'm going right back to the Inn and order myself a sandwich.'

    Now he was at the bar staring at the middle-aged couple who had taken their table as if he could give both of them heart attacks by malicious intention alone.

    'Craig… it wasn't their fault. Stop staring at them.'

    'That's our table. The table I reserved.'

    'But we were late. They're running a business here, they're crowded.'

    He banged his glass on the bar, and snapped his fingers at the barman to bring him another vodka. The barman was a tall, shy young man with a drooping blond moustache. He said, 'You can call me Michael, sir. Or Mikey. Most people do.'

    Craig stared at him. 'Do I know you?'

    The barman flushed. 'I'm just introducing myself, sir. Just trying to be friendly, that's all. Don't take it the wrong way.'

    'What is your job here?' Craig asked him. His voice was soft and menacing; so soft that the barman didn't hear him the first time.

    'Keep bar, sir.'

    'That's right. They don't pay you to make friends. They don't pay you to do anything except serve drinks when you're required to serve drinks. So serve me a drink. Please. And if you took offence at my popping my fingers at you, I'm sorry. Next time I'll whistle; or wave a flag, maybe; or set fire to something and send up smoke signals.'

    The barman glanced at Effie, who gave him a quick, sympathetic shake of the head which meant, don't rile him, not just now. He took Craig's glass and brought him another vodka martini, and a glass dish of pecans and salted almonds.

    'Your nuts, sir,' he said, with the straightest of faces.

    It was a pun, in retaliation against Craig's arrogance. He couldn't have known that it had another meaning - a meaning that went right to the heart of everything that had happened to Craig since Zaghlul Fuad had picked him up that rainy night in March. When Mikey said 'nuts', he wasn't making a joke about Up and Tyce and K-Plus Drugs.

    Craig stood up, as fast and smooth as some kind of predatory animal, and snatched an ice-pick from the top of the bar. Effie watched in horror as he seized the young man's shoulder with his left hand and lifted the ice-pick in his right. There was a millionth of a second in which she thought that Craig was actually going to stab him in the heart; but then Craig tossed the ice-pick aside. It clattered onto the floor and a man who was sitting at the other end of the bar quickly picked it up.

    The young barman backed away, his eyes wide with shock and his face white as his apron. The man who had picked up the ice-pick moved down the bar to them, and said, 'Come on, buddy, calm down.' But Craig lifted one warning finger to him and he decided to stay where he was.

    Effie caught hold of Craig's sleeve. 'Craig!' she pleaded. 'Craig, how could you!'

    'Craig?' he asked, as if he didn't know his own name. He turned to stare at her and his face was so congested with anger that he was almost maroon, and his eyes were swollen and bloodshot. He could have been a demon rather than her own husband.

    The maitre-d' came over, closely followed by a huge young crewcut man in a tuxedo. 'I'm going to have to ask you to leave.'

    'What?' said Craig, in a thick voice. 'What are you talking about? Effie, what's he talking about?'

    'I'm sorry, madam,' the maitre-d' said to Effie. 'I can't accept any kind of attack on my staff. If you don't leave now I'll call for the cops.'

    Effie tugged Craig away from the bar. He dragged his feet and he swayed against the maitre-d' as if he were drunk. As they were escorted to the door, the restaurant progressively fell silent, table by table, and the diners all turned to stare at them. Effie felt her cheeks flaming; and she was suddenly so hot that she thought she was going to faint.

    The maitre-d' held Craig's arm as they reached the door. 'I'd consider it a favour if you didn't come back.' Craig said, 'You really don't know who you're talking to, do you?'

    'Please…' said the maitre-d'. He looked at Effie. 'Are you all right, ma'am? You're looking kind of pale.'

    Craig pushed him away. 'This lady belongs to me, my friend. She is mine and mine alone.'

    'Come on, Craig,' Effie urged him. 'Let's just call it a night.'

    'This lady is mine,' Craig repeated. 'She belongs to me completely, body and soul. Don't you even dare think of speaking to her again, because if you do I'll tear off your head and piss down your neck.'

    They went down the steps and Effie guided Craig across the parking lot.

    'I'll drive,' she said, opening the driver's door. But Craig pushed her quite roughly aside and sat down behind the wheel.

    'You'll do what you're told, like you always do.'

    'If you're going to drive, I'm going to catch a cab.'

    He sat quite still for a moment, staring directly ahead of him, as if he were thinking about something else altogether. Then he climbed out of the car, stood in front of Effie, and laid both hands on her shoulders.

    'When you came to live with me, the deal was that you were going to be my property. You were going to do whatever I wanted you to do, without argument, without hesitation, without flinching.'

    'Listen to me, there's something wrong with you. Something's happening to you, you're changing.'

    'Was that the deal or was that not the deal?'

   'Craig-'

    'Was that the deal?'

    'No, it wasn't the deal! I promised to love and honour you, in sickness and in health, which is the only reason I'm staying with you right now, because something's happened to you, and you're sick! But I sure as hell didn't agree to be your property, and I never would!'

    He stared down at her as if he couldn't believe that she had actually dared to argue with him. His eyes were even more swollen, his nostrils were flared, and his breath came in deep, harsh gasps.

    'Get in the car,' he told her.

    'I've told you, if you insist on driving, then I'll take a cab.'

    'This is the last time. Get in the car.'

    She shook her head emphatically from side to side. 'No.' His response was to seize the thin straps of her short red evening-dress and yank them down. He pulled again, and again, and ripped the dress right off her. She was so shocked that she couldn't breathe, let alone scream. He took hold of her bra and yanked it up over her head, grazing her arms and scratching her face; and then he threw it into the darkness.

    Finally she found her voice. 'What are you-!'

    She tried to run, but he held her tight around the waist and while she kicked and struggled he dragged her pantyhose down to her knees and then stepped on the wide-stretched gusset to push them down to her ankles. Naked, she twisted around and started to scratch and punch him. He didn't hit her back. He didn't have to. He was far too strong for her and he didn't seem to care if she slapped his face and tore at his ears with her fingernails. He picked her up, hoisted her over his shoulder, and then walked around the car with her and threw her against the passenger door.

    'I told you,' he said, his face looming large. 'The deal was, you belong completely to me. You're mine.'

    'I'm going to divorce you,' she spat at him. 'This time I mean it. I'm going to divorce you and I'm going to take you for everything.'

    'You can't divorce somebody you're not married to.'

    'What are you talking about? What do you mean?'

    'I think you've been drinking too much,' he said. 'You've been hitting the bottle. You're married, sweetheart, but not to me.'

    'I don't know what the hell you're-'

    'Open your legs,' he demanded.

    'Craig, if this is Jack Belias affecting you, then please try and fight him back. Please, Craig! You're Craig Bellman, and I'm Effie Bellman, and we're married. We live at The Sutton Buildings, East 86th Street, New York City, and right now we're staying at Pig Hill Inn, in Cold Spring, and... Craig, don't let him do this to you! Don't let him take you over!'

    'Open your legs,' he repeated.

    She squeezed her thighs tight together. 'Craig… if you're going to drive me back to the Inn, then please get in and drive me back to the Inn. You're scaring me, Craig. You're really scaring me.'

    He leaned forward and cupped the back of her neck in his left hand, firmly but not bruisingly. 'Open your legs or I'll break your neck. And you know I can do it.'

    'Craig-' her eyes were swimming with tears. 'Craig, please don't do this!'

    He clamped her neck tighter. She gasped for breath and let out a high, painful sob.

    'You know I can do it,' he repeated, in the same flat voice.

    Quaking with fright, Effie gradually opened her thighs. Still staring at her, still slightly smiling, Craig slid his hand between them, with his middle finger held out rigid.

    She felt her tears dropping onto her bare breasts as he pushed his finger inside her. He held it there for five or ten seconds, and then took it out again.

    'I told you,' he said. 'You belong to me. Completely.' Miserably, still weeping, she pulled on her dress and climbed into the car.

    

    

    She waited until she heard him drive away; then she climbed out of bed and quickly dressed in a soft white angora sweater and a pair of jeans. He had taken the room key with him, but she wedged a folded-up Pig Hill Inn leaflet in the door so that she could get back in again. She tip-toed along the corridor and down the stairs, and peered cautiously around the lobby in case she had made a mistake, and it hadn't been him driving away.

    Wendy O'Brien came out with a smile and said, 'Help you, Mrs. Bellman?'

    Effie smiled back, and said, 'No thanks. I couldn't sleep. That's all. I just thought I'd take a walk.'

    'You don't want a glass of warm milk or anything?'

    'No thanks, I'm fine.'

    'You'll excuse me for asking… but everything's okay, is it?'

    'Everything's great! We're really enjoying ourselves.'

    'It's just that… well, I don't want to intrude or anything. But I have heard some raised voices, coming from your room. And your face…'

    'I went for a walk in the woods around Valhalla, that's all, and scratched myself on some briars. It's nothing to worry about. And I'm sorry if we've been disturbing anybody. My husband's been kind of excitable since we've bought Valhalla, and he does tend to get carried away.' She walked down the street to the Hungry Moon. It was a warm, still night, and the real moon had just appeared over the top of the Old Post Inn, so that it illuminated the greedy-mouthed moon which hung outside Pepper's store. Effie pressed the bell and waited for a while. Then she pressed the bell again. Further down the street, the Hudson glittered slow and treacly in the darkness like an oil spill.