The Poison Morality (22 page)

“I’m early,” Oliver said when Sophie answered the door, a towel wrapped around her head and a terry robe on. 

“I didn’t realize we were still going, under the circumstances and I haven’t heard from you.”

“I’ve been busy and I promised to take you.  Can you get ready?”  She nodded.  He was wearing his usual trousers and button up shirt but with a jacket on.  Seeing what he wore made her feel better about her selection of dress.

“Give me ten minutes, I’ll be ready,” she rushed off.

“That’s ok, doesn’t start until six thirty,” he lingered inside, pacing.

Everything in the flat was faded or dark except the yellow envelope that sat on the table beside the window stood out.  Oliver could hear her walking between the bedroom and bathroom and then the bathroom door shut.  Staring at the envelope and then the door that she was behind, he felt a loathing.  This wasn’t her.  Before, he didn’t care about it.  The envelope and Sophie were as separate in his mind as the poison and killing in hers.  But after Sam’s death it all became one and his intuition was telling him Sydney was more involved than Sophie wanted to acknowledge and when he saw Sophie’s face, he saw Sydney.

Sophie opened the door.  They looked at each other wide eyed but for different reasons.  “Is this alright, cause you’re gawping so I can’t tell if it’s good or bad,” biting her lip nervously.

“It’s perfect,” he said not so much of a compliment but matter of fact.  The dress was long and black; it would have been boring except for the curves underneath.  Instead of the dress accentuating her figure, her body complemented the dress.  It was off the shoulder, exposing her pale, rounded shoulders but there were straps that crossed in front adorned with small, slightly metallic beads, put together almost like flowers but more abstract.  He looked away from her.  Her beauty was like looking directly at the sun.

“What’s the name of it again?  Don….,” she couldn’t remember the rest.

“Don Giovanni.”

It was obvious that Oliver was troubled.  He sat quietly in the taxi running his finger across his bottom lip deep in thought.  He hardly spoke and she let him think uninterrupted until his silence drove her mad.  “Are you alright,” she asked genuinely concerned.

“Hmm?  It’s just that I came straight from the funeral.”  He returned to thinking, muddling something over and over.

“We could have skipped tonight.  I could have gone with you to the...”

“No,” he said abruptly, “It’s fine, it’s good for me to get out and I promised you.”  He was still upset with her despite the crying on her; she didn’t touch or speak to him unless he spoke first.  It was really unnecessary anyway, once the music started. 

When the opera began, Sophie was confused at first not knowing any Italian she didn’t understand the appeal of it and didn’t know how she was going to follow.  But she became captivated by the music and voices.  Oliver looked over at Sophie, having been lost in thought about Sam and thinking about the part Sydney played in his death and slightly annoyed that Sophie did not.  She sat mesmerized but her back was stiff and her hands folded delicately in her lap.

Sophie looked over, smiling at Oliver but she saw his brows furrowed together in worry.  The lines between his brows went horizontal instead of vertical like most people’s she noticed; he absently rubbed his thumb over the side of his forefinger.  She had not seen or heard from him since his accusation and she could tell there was still an internal battle on the subject.

He reached over to touch Sophie’s hand; she smiled, now her turn to make him feel reassured.  At intermission he led her to the lobby and ordered a stout drink instead of his usual wine but she refused anything.  He could hardly look at her but his hand was on her back.  The tension between them was like a string pulled taught to the breaking point.  As much as she loved the opera it was hard to enjoy it as long as his mood was so glum.

After a night of perpetual silence he broke it in the back of the cab he asked if she enjoyed it and she replied that she did but he didn’t really seem interested in having an answer.  “I…won’t be available for a while.  I’m going to be staying with Phillipa to help get Sam’s affairs in order.”

“Of course, I understand.  If there’s anything I can do just let me know.”

“There is.  If you see Sydney…,” he stared out the window, “find out what she knows about Sam.  For God’s sake, talk to her.”  The taxi pulled up outside her building.  She took his hand and he squeezed briefly making no motion to look at her or come out with her but he kissed the top of it and so she went inside, alone.

She took off her coat and went straight to the fireplace starting the fire.  Grabbing the envelope she walked over to the flames, her inclination to throw it in.  Approaching, she held it closer and closer but she couldn’t do it.  What if Oliver was right?  What if Sydney is the centre to everything that had been happening?  Sophie had no idea even where to start to find her.  Nothing could be found of a Sydney Newton and if she was going under an alias she had no idea what it could be.  There was only one person she knew that she could talk to. 

Calls to check up on Oliver and Phillipa were ignored.  He was upset and busy, she knew, she hoped it wasn’t that nagging voice inside his head still telling him she was guilty of what happened to Sam.  Over the next fortnight Sophie spent her time studying up on the next receiver of the poison and going to the alley looking for the druggy but he was nowhere to be found. 

Perhaps now that spring had arrived he was out and about more, straying more from the illusion of security of the alley.  She had gone during the day and during the evening to no avail.  Finally, after several days of an absentee Oliver and a fruitless search, he was there.  A warm breeze picked up the random stenches of the alley she had not been so sensitive to before.  Approaching his crouching figure, he stood slowly, cautiously when she approached, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

“Which one are you then,” he asked, this time he wasn’t jittery or nervous just guarded. 

“You know there are two of us,” Sophie asked, raising the bottom of her jumper exposing the scar.

“Yeah, that explains about the questions last time, don’t it?  Syd was peeved about that,” he said indicating her scar.

Syd?  She mouthed the word.  “So was I,” Sophie said. 

He just scoffed, hands in his pockets.  The hair on his head matted his face dirty and un-kept.  “Not like she was, fuckin’ hell, she threatened me because of that stunt so in fact why don’t you just leave me alone,” he looked around conspicuously and lowered his voice, turning away from her, resting a shoulder on the wall, hands in his pocket.  “If she sees me talking to you, who knows, what she might do.”

Sophie really couldn’t believe this man was scared of her sister but the anxiety seemed to be genuine but he couldn’t resist the five quid she held up to him.  “Not until you tell me if Sydney had asked you to do anything else, lately.”

“She asks me to do this and that all the time.”

“Has she threatened anyone else or told you to?”

“I’m sure she has but me?  Nah, nothing like that.”

“Well then, like what?  Anything strange or out of the ordinary that she’s asked of you lately.”

He clamped his mouth shut waiting and she handed him another five quid, “She had me follow a bloke, she told me to follow him around and then report to her everything and everywhere he goes.  But all of a sudden she told me to stop, that I didn’t need to follow him anymore.”

“Why all of a sudden?”

“Well, it was a long time; she said a couple weeks ago I could stop.  She said he was a dead man, anyway.”

Sophie waivered afraid to ask the question but knowing she had to.  “Do you know his name?”

“Ah, hell no.”

“What did he look like,” her eyes became wide, scared.  “Did…did he have auburn hair and blue eyes?”

He paused on purpose, knowing she was waiting in anticipation, looking off in the distance, tapping his chin, “Um….nooooo,” he drew it out to tease her.  Sophie let the air escape her lungs that she had been holding in.  She had not known she had been so taught until the relief rippled through her.

“He had dark hair and dark eyes, like you ladies,” he seemed surprised by that revelation, “important looking, works in The City and all; pretty posh.”

“Has she ever mentioned a Sam?”

“No, not to me.”

“And what about the dark haired man, why did she want you to follow him?”

“You think Syd tells me anything?  We have a working relationship, she gives me money and drugs and I do what she tells me to do, she’s become my benefactor, as it were,” Sophie’s eyebrows shot up at his use of the word benefactor and that he used it referring to Sydney.  “I tell her all the time, no more, but she ignores me, gives me what I need and I do what she wants.”

“With occasional improvising,” she said rubbing her waist.

“She doesn’t confide in me about any of the strange things she does.  Now will you just go away?  I don’t want her to see us talkin’.”

“What can you tell me about Sydney?  Do you know where I can find her,” she handed him twenty quid this time.

He snatched it, “You don’t find her.  She finds you.”  It wasn’t spoken in jest; he was very serious about that fact.

“You don’t know where she lives or works or anything that would help me to find her?” 

“Other than here when she comes to talk to me, I have no idea.  And she’s on her own schedule,” he looked around again, concerned. 

“Can you tell me what she’s like?”  The warm breeze blew the stagnation out of the entrance of the alley.

“Like?  Shouldn’t you know that better than me?”

Sophie looked down at the ground, “Yes well, I should but I don’t.”

Owen chose his words carefully and then he smiled, his rotten teeth flashed, “You’re the nice one, you know.  She’s,” he blew out the air between pursed lips, “she’s sexy but she’s cruel.  She likes her way and she’s protective of you.”

Sophie just nodded in acknowledgement at the dark picture that he painted of Sydney.  Did it make her exactly the type of person to kill Sam?  Sophie couldn’t believe that she would do such a thing but she was with him.

She wondered if she should call Oliver or not or wait for him to contact her.  There would be no calling him tonight anyway.  She had work to do and she dreaded it a little now.   Whereas before she gave it very little thought just taking the few minutes it took and going on to the next but Oliver influenced her now.  The things she thought not possible seemed to be now and the things that she cared about changed and now he abandoned her.

It was getting late; she would go straight to his flat.  The needle was already in her pocket just in case.  There was the feeling of dread the whole way there but a couple of stops later she loitered outside the building of penthouses in
Battersea until someone buzzed the door open and she followed them in, head down and hair tucked under her hood.

The door was slightly ajar already.  Waiting, she suspected for his ‘company’ to arrive but it would be her instead.  She called the agency and cancelled for him.  There was no plan, she knew there was no wisdom in doing it here but she had completely lost interest and she would pretend to have the wrong flat or something, she would just play it by ear.

But when she pushed the door open and walked inside a blow to the side of her face knocked her to the floor and she lost consciousness.

Sophie woke with teeth chattering.  She was thankful for the bitter cold.  Coat and shoes gone, the uncontrollable shaking was caused by either the low temperatures or the situation she found herself in, probably both. 

It hid the brutal fear vibrating so violently that waves of pain travelled through her body as every motion accentuated the tightness of her bonds around her wrists otherwise too numb to feel in the cold.  Spring was bringing warmer temperatures during the day but the night-time was still frigid.

The chair Sophie was tied to thrust violently backwards and dragged across the terrace.  Tilted backwards on the back legs; she could see her breath against the London night sky.  The jolting caused her binds to bite deeper into her flesh.  She cried out through clenched teeth, her jaws locked to keep them from chattering irrepressibly.

Once inside, the chair was dropped back abruptly on all four legs, thrusting her body forward; a cry forced from her lips at the surprise of it.  The only thing she remembered was the door, slightly open, and a blow across her face knocking her to the floor, a pair of shoes, and then nothing.

Warmth thawed her flesh into stinging jabs, her blood liquefied and began to pump freely again. Slowly, the feeling came back to her limbs and she began to take inventory of the wounds through the sensations of pain.   Licking her lips she could taste the salty metallic blood, the bile rising in her throat, she pushed it down, concentrating on the feel rather than the smell or taste if she wanted to stay conscious.  A cut on her cheek pricked, burning on her wrists indicating just how tightly she was bound and the throbbing in her cheekbone circled around her head.

Her sight was only coming back into focus when he sat on the sofa across from her.  The moustache hid his upper lip and his hairline was receding but the hair he had was a dark blonde and thin.  Worry in his hazel eyes betrayed the confidence he tried to portray while holding the gun in his hands, alternating between holding the gun and swiping nervously through his hair like Oliver did when he was exasperated, occasionally wiping the sweat from his forehead and fidgeting. 

Looking around the flat, he was trying to concentrate and find an answer to his dilemma, avoiding eye contact with her.
“I really don’t want to kill you but if I have to choose your life or mine, guess which my preference is,” his voice was raspy.

“Wh-what do you mean?  Wh-why would you k-kill me,” she stuttered, the warmth wrapping her like a blanket but the shock swept through her, taking over where the cold left off.  An interesting question considering she was there to put the poison in
him
.

“That’s the only way I see this playing out,” his elbows resting on his knees, his hands open, palms up expressing the desperation in his hand gestures, his brows furrowed.  “I was informed someone was coming to blackmail me.  Not very good at this are you, just showing up like that?  Finally, his eyes met hers and his expression hid the fear, he had found the courage he was hoping for which was bad news for Sophie.  “And I can’t have you jeopardizing everything I’ve worked so hard for can I?”  His questions formed as justification, even to her, the idea of killing her.  Her stomach flipped and her heart pounded at the notion that this was how she was going to die unless she could convince him otherwise. 

Either Sydney was a blackmailer or someone mistakenly thought Sophie was.  “For her own good,” echoed in her mind.  Curiosity brought her thoughts to Sydney but her survival beckoned for Oliver.  He had been indifferent to her since Sam’s death; she gave him time not knowing what else to do.  He left her flat without a word and had not asked her to go to the viewing or funeral and since the opera he had withdrawn.  Occasionally she called to check on him but he didn’t answer.  Her innocence was not in question now, she thought, he had said so and he had no reason to lie to her.

Wit and cunning were not her strong suits but that was all she had to use, confined to the chair.  Sophie closed her eyes, her head swaying trying to remember anything from his dossier she could use. Then it came to her, the inconceivable. 

There was never any use for feminine wiles either, a woman’s weapon, when needed.  Her mother’s words, “men can’t help themselves.”  In this case she hoped she was right, even though Oliver contradicted it but she was hoping with his weakness played against him that Maurice would act on it. 

Never had she even attempted playing the seductress and Oliver’s words echoed in her head, not a good liar.  Remembering what she had seen in movies was all she had to go on.  Would the shaking and the pain hide it? Those weapons of femininity were the only ones she had and she was about to have a crash course in using them with a little help of his vice.  Not a good liar and her head grew heavier, darkness swirled in her head, and she thought she would lose consciousness once again, her head drooped, she was thinking what to do. 

Lifting her head and looking him in the eye, taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, a half smile curved her lips, “Why would I blackmail you when you’ve so generously paid for me already?”  His eyebrows shot up and before he could say anything, she continued, “I don’t think the agency will be too happy to see what you’ve done to me and would forbid anymore business with you
if
I told them.”

“You’re from the agency,” he looked her up and down sceptically, shaking his head.  “How do I know you didn’t just become greedy?”

“I am greedy, that’s why I’m in the business.  I like to have my cake and eat it too….usually,” she bit her lip in pain but emphasized it with a throaty moan, seductively.  “Does your wife love you?”  She sat back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other casually, noticing the gold band.

“What,” he was distracted, not by the red mark she had left on her own lower lip, but when her tongue flicked out licking the blood at the corner slowly, deliberately, and she shuddered.

“I said,” she paused clearing her throat that was now dry, “does your wife love you?”

“I knew it, you...,” he jumped up and started pacing, the gun precarious in his nervous hand.

“No, don’t misunderstand me,” she interrupted, “whoever is blackmailing you could very well be a nuisance to me as well.  Assuming your sexual escapades would be what the extortionist has against you?  Or are you always naughty,” one eyebrow rose in question.  “Besides, the last thing either of us wants is to deal with an angry wife.  And the way I see it, if you kill me that’s two problems on your hands but,” she tried to shrug non-chalantly, not actually having room to do so, “if you go to prison for murder, you won’t have to worry about being blackmailed.”  The gun rose until she stared down the barrel but he was trying to read her. 

“The agency knows I’m here and knowing where I went before I went missing would bring a whole world of law on your head.  I think it’s a much better idea to get on with what I’m here to do, don’t you,” she tilted her chin down and looked at him through her dark lashes.  “I think if you wanted to kill me you would have already.”

He wiped his bottom lip with the back of his hand and stared at her breasts.  It was a familiar gesture, a lot like Declan and she knew he was on the hook.  “You would say anything to save yourself.  Maybe I should call the agency and verify your story,” taking the phone out of his pocket, gun still aimed at her.

“Or, you can let me go,” she leaned forward as far as she could to be close to him, the bonds straining and cutting deeper, as far as they would allow, she stretched just a little further, flinching, looking up at him, “and I can verify it another way, any way you want,” her tongue flicked out touching the end of the gun and she sat back, showing no fear but her heart was beating fiercely.  Wide eyed, disbelieving what she had done, he dropped the gun to his side.

“Even now, you would have sex with me,” the battle between what he wanted to believe and what he thought he should do raged on.  He closed the gap that his extended arm had filled before. 

Licking the blood again, she replied, “We’ve already had the foreplay.”

Still sceptical he replied, “You’re not dressed very sexy,” looking beyond her lovely, bruised face to the unrevealing black shirt and dark trousers. 

“It’s cold outside,” she sat back in the chair again, arching her back a little more, her breasts thrust forward, her shoulders now aching adding to the cacophony of pain rippling through her.  Now thawed, it was all evident, the cuts and bruises were the only things that kept her focused.

“And you’re still cold from the looks of it,” putting his phone away, he couldn’t resist pinching her left nipple between his thumb and finger.

“I didn’t think I would be wearing them for that long, it’s what’s underneath that’s sexy unless you don’t like black lace,” she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper to hide the need for water, the effect working on him.

“Besides,” sitting straight, looking up at him, her mouth inches away from the erection he couldn’t hide, she breathed, “I know the depravity of men.  It’s alright to let the animal out every once in a while because left caged too long could lead to some extreme behaviour,” her head titled to the side, “like now.  Is that what it is?  You’ve been trapped in your cage too long, Maurice,” the end of his name hissed.  “We can play those games if you want.  It’s not that long ago that I was cut with a knife so I’m tougher than I look.”  It had the effect she was looking for, his breath caught suppressing excitement.  “Would you like to see,” nodding indicating it was on her left side.

He crouched in front of her, slowly pulling her shirt out of her trousers, his knuckle tickled her skin.  He mistakenly took her quickness of breath as pleasure
. 
His fingertips followed her scar and swiftly pressed into it making her flinch and his other hand flew up to squeeze her throat firmly. 

“They don’t like scars at the agency,” she looked him in the eye, his nose almost touching hers, his breath on her face.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” she strained, “but you better not make any more or you won’t have someone to play with anymore,” her tongue darted out, the tip brushing his lips and he couldn’t hold back any longer, he eased his grip and tilted her head back to have full access to her mouth, kissing her deeply, the moustache abrasive on her skin.  His kiss was wet and sloppy; his tongue darted in and out of her mouth like a lizard.

He paused, looking into her eyes, “What will you tell them about tonight?”  The barrel of the gun pressed against her neck.

“I’ll just tell them,” she thought for a moment, “that all went well and on my way home I was attacked on the street.  It will be
our
dirty little secret.  But you have to cut me loose first,” she jerked her head free of his hand.

Walking behind her, she heard him place the gun on the glass of the table behind her and a click of a pocket knife, anticipating the tip of it going into her flesh but then she felt the delicious release of her hands.  She hugged herself, easing the stretch of her shoulders but he was in front of her, jerking her to her feet until she was on her tip toes, walking her backwards towards the bedroom.

Weaving her arms through his, in front of her, she pushed his hands off her arms and caught them, placing them on her breasts then entwining hers in his hair kissing him.  Out of the corner of her eye she could see her coat lying across a stool close to the kitchen so that’s where she led him.

“Oh you want to do it in the kitchen,” he said misinterpreting what she wanted but all the same to her advantage.  He spun her around, kissing her neck, his hands kneading her breasts now under her shirt, pulling her bra down, she straps sliding off her shoulders to have access to her nipples, gliding slowly towards the coat. 

She was disoriented, his hand entwined in her hair pulling it back so that she couldn’t see but she was feeling around for the pocket.  Once she found it, she could feel the needle and slid the sheath off when she heard his zipper, and she gripped the needle firmly.  He tugged at her clothes but she was not giving over so easily and poked him with the needle in the web between thumb and forefinger, then tossed it back into the pocket.            

Crying out, he pushed her down between her shoulder blades, her knee bumping into the stool, her head pressed on the bar’s cold stone.  His hand was undoing the button of her trousers and sliding between her pants and her stomach, groping.  She was clawing at his hands.  She drew in her breath between clenched teeth.  Gripping her hair again, it was less pulling and more a firm hold, he whispered in her ear. “Is this what you want?”  It was only a matter of time.  The pinch of her nipple was so hard she instinctively elbowed him in the ribs.

He shoved her aside, she fell to the floor and he was on top of her before she had realized what happened.  She lay there, motionless while he kissed her, gripping her trousers with her thighs he was struggling to pull off but he just smiled and laughed at her.  “Wait,” they were both breathless and huffing.  The sweat on his brow, the red face, could be signs that it was kicking in or the tossing that was going on, she couldn’t be sure.

“Why wait?” He wheezed but just once.

Give his hands something else to do.  “Hold me down,” she put her arms above her head, “and just use your mouth.”  His fingers interlaced with hers.  Not exactly what she was thinking of but his hands were out of her pants.

He pulled her shirt up around her neck with his teeth, her bra pulled down already made easy access to her breasts.  He started to cough, throwing saliva on her chest and stomach.  There was a satisfaction in that; it was beginning to take hold.  “Are you alright?”