Dark Mirrors (21 page)

Cursing the child-lock that prevented her from escaping at the traffic lights, Esmée watched through the window as gradually they picked up speed.

“What do you want? It’s the money, isn’t it?” she demanded, her reasonable attempt at being masterful and in control utterly belied by the quake of her voice. “Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

But neither man spoke, her backseat companion staring straight ahead apparently oblivious, or at least deaf, to her frantic questions as they drove down the familiar streets of her village and out to the main road that fed into the city.

“Answer me!” she shrieked, hugging her bag protectively, cowering further into the corner of the seat, putting as much distance as she could between her and her captors. “Tell me, for God’s sake! Please tell me where you’re taking me!” Tears of sheer terror fell without shame down each of her flushed and shaking cheeks.

“
Would you ever just shut the fuck up?” the man by her side bellowed, followed by a tired sigh and the casting of his eyes to heaven with a denigrating shake of his head, ostensibly bored by her,
as if this was the most natural situation for him to find himself in.

The thud in her chest hurt as her stomach danced, threatening to throw up her morning coffee at her feet. She was scared, more scared than she had been in her entire life as familiar landmarks outside the window were soon replaced with places and buildings she didn’t recognise.

They knew her, knew her children’s names. Thoughts of rape and murder filled her head. Why her? Would she ever see her children again? What were they going to do with her? The pace of her sobbing intensified as thoughts of Matthew and Amy came rushing to the forefront of her mind and she thought of them totally parentless, orphans. What would become of them? She was all they had left. She imagined them waiting for her to come and pick them up, pictured Matthew taking his little sister’s hand to wait anxiously for her in the school yard, watching the last of their friends go home. Esmée was never late to collect them. They never had to wait for her – she was always there to meet them, always on time, when they streamed out in single file from their classrooms to their designated and numbered white line drawn on the tarmac. Matthew would worry, would know something was wrong. Amy would probably sense it too and cry; she was still only a baby. She saw them in her mind’s eye sitting on the miniature chairs against the wall outside Mrs Jones’ office, clutching their schoolbags in their little arms. Waiting. Who would Mrs Jones call? Whose numbers were on the emergency form that she filled out? Her own first, then Philip’s and after that . . .? Shit! She couldn’t remember! It was so long ago since she’d completed it. She wept into her hands for her children and for herself and hardly noticed when they came to a standstill.

She looked out the window and into the dim light of a concrete car park but had no idea where they were. It looked like every other high-rise car park she’d ever been in. If she got out of this alive she
would never be able to tell anyone where they’d taken her.

The man beside her took hold of her arm and yanked her roughly out of the car after him, almost pulling her arm out of its socket. He steered her towards a silver Mercedes with blacked-out windows in the next bay. This was surreal, she thought, close to hysteria, as the door opened smoothly and a hand emerged, motioning for her to join it. Reluctantly and with everything to lose, she did as she was bid, too afraid to run. Her nose snotty, her eyes runny and her chest puffing uncontrollably, she was in a state.

There were no lights on in the darkened car and it took a while for her vision to acclimatise and notice the grey-faced middle-aged and balding man beside her. He sat like royalty in the back of the luxurious cream-leather interior, an arm thrown casually across the seat, obviously anticipating her arrival.

“Mrs Myers, I hear they call ya,” he greeted gallantly, his outstretched hand taking hers and shaking it slowly. “Is it all right if I call ya Esmée?”

She nodded, taken aback by his unexpected politeness, the thick Dublin drawl mirroring the style of his approach but definitely not the image of the car.

“Sorry if Tommo was a little rough with ya,” he said, handing her a tissue, “but I really just wanted to meet ya.”

All the words in her vocabulary left her. Unable to speak, she simply shook her head, too afraid to tell this man what she really felt. She sat sideways in the seat, on the edge and not quite facing him. She could tell even from his sitting position that he was a tall man, his large intimidating frame seeming to fill the rear of the car, the few strands of hair combed over the bald patch almost touching the fabric of the roof. This, combined with the dim light and the stench of his stale sweat and alcohol, took the warmth from her soul. She quivered, cowering and scared into the corner, holding on tight to the bag in her lap.

“Are ya cold?” he enquired politely, almost convincingly worried, and without waiting for her to answer leaned forward in his expensive camel-coloured coat to adjust a control on the illuminated dial between the driver and passenger seat, his slicked hair-strands flopping comically forward on his brow as he did so. If she hadn’t been in fear for her life she probably would have laughed.

“Tommo tells me,” he said casually, fixing his mop and turning to face her full on, “that your hubby’s been a bit of a naughty boy.” He looked her up and down as he spoke, his eyes eventually stopping at her face, focusing on the faint bruise. He reached out his hand slowly to touch it, running his fingers over the receding pale-pink cut on her forehead.

She flinched at his touch. Her eyes closed as she tried to control the rising nausea. If he noticed her cringe he didn’t show it but a tense and uneasy atmosphere seemed to seep into the car as he continued to explore her, persisted in invading her personal space with such intensity she felt she would pass out.

“Such a lovely face.” His words were barely audible as his hand fell to her shoulder and passed leisurely over her breast, touching it with tentative reverence, his face filled with concentration as tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow, slowly sliding over his temples and into oblivion.

Her chest heaved while her lungs tried to compensate for the lack of oxygen and rush of blood around her body. Her arms clenched, holding the bag tight to her stomach, as if somehow it might protect her. Tighter and tighter she held on as his hand by-passed it to rest cruelly on her denim-clad thigh, just above her knee. Every muscle in her body seized as, moulding it in his palm, he travelled a slow journey towards its top. She held her breath, unable to look at the man for whom this touch was seductive while it repulsed, scared and sickened her. In normal circumstance she would have lashed out against such an intimidating, humiliating and blatant incursion of her person but fear of the consequences stopped her. He would enjoy punishing her, of that she was sure.

“Nothing permanent,” he said finally, making idle nodding reference to her face, the seismic atmosphere shifting as soon as he extracted his hand from between her clenched upper thighs. His exercise was complete: he had achieved the desired effect, confirming that he was the master. Replacing his arm on the back of the seat he sat back to survey her face and reaction to his assault, silently mocking her, enjoying her discomfort, proud of the terror he instilled in her.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Esmée asked, her voice shaking as she looked defiantly at him.

“Don’t you be worrin’ about me just yet. I just wanna have a nice little chat, nothing else, that’s all.”

“This is about Philip, isn’t it?”

“Ahhh, that it is. Me and Phil, we go back a looooong way,” he crooned, placing peculiar emphasis on his name.

“Where is he?” she croaked, her voice struggling to escape from the scratchy dryness of her dry throat. Swallowing hard, she waited for an answer.

“Now,” he said, settling further into the seat and looking up towards the upholstered roof as he replied, as if speaking to the gods, “ya see, that’s the gazillion-euro question, isn’t it?”

Cocking his head to one side he looked down to consider her, assess her, and pursing his lips together with due consideration he eventually presented his case.

“Your Phil, or my Bobby as I like to call him – seems he wants us both to think he’s fish food somewhere at the bottom of the Irish fuckin’ Sea,” his arm motioned dramatically in waves through the space between them, “but we don’t believe him. Do we?” He asked the question of her like she was a student and he the tutor.

She shook her head.

“And where do you think he is?” he asked.

Feeling like a brainless, stupid puppet she shook her head again. “I have no idea,” she said, her eyes wide with fear at the unknown horror of what might come next.

His loud laugh ripped into her brain like a stiletto blade as he accepted her ignorance and exercised his power over her.

“You’re lovely, do ya know that?” he complimented her, obviously distracted by her presence and proximity, slapping his hand on her thigh. “So, ya don’t know where he is then?”

Esmée shook her head fast.

Sitting back into the seat, he seemed to relax a little.

“Well, let me tell you a few things about your fancy boy. Me and your hubby, we were . . .” He paused, scratching his unevenly shadowed chin as if searching for the appropriately intellectual words to describe their relationship.

“Hmmm, let’s just say we were business associates. Yeah! Business associates,” he affirmed, happy with his choice. “An’ we’ve got some unfinished business to sort out. Some seriously fuckin’ serious catchin’ up to do . . . but now he’s gone and done his little disappearing act and I can’t sort him out.” He was smiling at her now, as if this latest piece of information should give her great pleasure.

And it did in one respect, because now at least she knew why Philip was gone.

“What kind of business?” Finding her nerve, she asked the question, with genuine curiosity secreted somewhere behind the depths of her fear.

He considered her for a while before proceeding plainly. “Let’s just say he’s cost me time and money. A whole lotta time and a whole lotta money. Ya see, your precious partner liked the gee-gees. Loved them, he did. But he wasn’t very good at it, now was he, and he lost shitloads.” His tone was amicable and matter of fact.

“So this,” Esmée dared, “this is about the money. It belongs to you?” and taking the sizable multi-coloured bundle from her bag cast it unceremoniously into his lap, glad to be rid of it. “Is this what you want?”

“Ah fair play to ya, Es. Can I call ya Es?” he asked as he ripped through the layers. “That’s some bit of wrappin’! What the fuck is it? Pass the bleeding parcel?” he roared hysterically, amused by his own joke until finally he got to the last layer and flicked through the dirty notes, pile by pile, with an accomplished lick of his fingers, laughing as his count was complete. “No offence, love, but this isn’t even close to settling up. We’re beyond cash now.” He placed the package down deliberately on the seat between them. He considered it for a second, as if debating whether or not to just take it, because he could, before pushing it back towards her.

“That’s a lotta moola,” he nodded, “but it ain’t mine, love.” He was almost apologetic as he announced, “Those notes ain’t gonna give me back my time.”

“Time, what do you mean ‘time’?” Frustration was fast breeding panic. Esmée couldn’t think. What the hell was he talking about? Pushing the thought aside, she focused back on the money: that she could understand. “There’s no more apart from that.” She pointed at it. “This is all I have. I don’t know where he got it but there’s no more.”

“Don’t be fuckin’ stupid, woman! Keep the fuckin’ money. I’m not after you or your money,” he sneered. “I’m after your lesser half.” He smirked at his own joke.

Adrenaline suddenly pumped through her veins, giving her an unwise and altogether false cocky confidence. “Look,” she said, “I have no idea where he is and if I knew I’d kill him myself . . . so can I please go now?”

“Easy there, girl!” His voice rose abruptly. “Now don’t go getting all smart-arsey with me.” His eyes bored into hers menacingly. “I’m being nice here . .
.”

Startled, she dropped her stare quickly, needing no more warning. “I don’t know where Philip is, really I don’t,” she implored as calmly as she could, “and I want to go home. You’re scaring me!” Her voice shook, courage deserting her, as she admitted the effect he was having on her.

“Well, he’s one brave little bollix,” he said, ignoring her plea, not quite ready to let her go. He hadn’t finished his story yet. “That’s what got him into trouble in the first place. A cocky selfish prick right down to his cold little pinkies,” he mocked.

Esmée had no idea why he thought to share this information with her and wished he’d stop, but he kept going.

“Thought he could play with the big boys, thought he was smarter than the rest of us, thought he could shop me in an’ get away with it. Did he think a fancy name an’ a new hair cut’d keep him safe from me? Thick fuck!” Suddenly he bellowed: “I’m the scariest fucker in this fuckin’ town! In this fuckin country!” He pulled himself together quickly, cracking his neck to relieve his tension. “But he didn’t reckon on ol’ Jimbo here having half a brain, did he? Didn’t count on me mates helpin’ out, bein’ me eyes out here with me in there. No lying and hiding and begging forgiveness gets ya off the hook that easy, now does it?” He laughed raucously, eventually ending with a throat-tightening wheeze. “No wonder he’s gone fuckin’ missin’ – I’d go missin’ if I was after me!”