Dark Mirrors (32 page)

Robert sat on the floor of the banking hall with a cup of sweet tea in his hand, watching the blinking blue lights of the ambulance outside and listening to the weeping testimony of Amanda as she recounted the event. He hated tea, let alone sweet tea, but he was drinking it anyway. It just wasn’t supposed to happen like this. That wasn’t meant to happen. What the hell was he going to do now? They got away, all of them, except him. But they left empty-handed.

“We’re not done yet, Bobby, my son,” Brady had whispered. “Open your fucking gob,” he muttered venomously, taking a firm hold of Robert’s balls, “and you’re dead. Clear?” He tightened his grip.

Robert nodded furiously and then Brady was gone. Out the back door. Empty-bloody-handed.

Within minutes there were cops everywhere, closing off roads and securing the bank itself. The ambulance arrived after and word quickly came back to say they’d found Julie and Harry safe: scared but well. At first they were gentle with him: firm but gentle. But he knew the moment they suspected his complicity when the flavour of their questions changed. They became distinctly more hostile, their questions bullish and direct.

After a couple of weeks Robert was arrested. Turning against Brady was elementary. Despite the failure of the heist, he still owed Brady the money. There was no way he’d forgive that, on top of which Robert doubted Brady would believe he hadn’t ratted them out: so why disappoint? He was a dead man walking. They offered them a new life, a new identity, a fresh start. And help for his addiction. The gambling had to end: that was a deal-breaker. But it was a sweet deal regardless: too good to refuse. Julie, however, was different. When the truth came out she went wild, savage even, and refused to find reason in his actions. He tried to explain his predicament and when that didn’t work he lied. He told her Brady had forced him to do it, but that story unravelled as the court case progressed and, as always, the truth came out. What she just couldn’t forgive, she declared with absolute finality, was how he could have even considered putting their children, both born and unborn, in such extreme danger. She threw him out that night, telling him to go and never come back. So he did just that. That simple.

Why she just couldn’t accept that he had no other choice, he couldn’t quite fathom. She left him and took his children from him. Estranged and in a foreign country, he found it difficult to divorce himself from what had happened. The death of Frank Gill affected him more than he could ever have imagined. At the time he was just there. Wrong place, wrong time. And, yes, it was sad. Horrible even, and he couldn’t get the faces of Frank’s family out of his head. At the time, still a free man, he attended the funeral and contemplated Frank’s grieving children as they cried openly when the coffin was lowered into the ground. He was almost jealous of Frank Gill, whose wife wept with silent dignity as they filled his grave with soil. It was an accident. But it had become his accident.

South Africa was good to him. His house was beautiful, his job was great, the weather magnificent. The women, outstanding. But he couldn’t settle. They told him that heading back home wasn’t an option. If he came out of the programme, he did so at his own peril and cost. They couldn’t and wouldn’t protect him. And while Brady got fifteen years, he still had eyes and ears everywhere. Good sense failed Robert as he weighed up the odds. Distance numbed his reason and it seemed like a good idea at the time. He’d changed his name once before so he could just as easily do it again. It wasn’t difficult – he still had the fake passport and birth certificate he’d bought to arrange for that safe-deposit box in Dublin before
he left. He could use that. He’d liked the name, Philip Myers, there was something debonair about it, he thought, and so Philip Myers was officially born. Finding the impressionable young woman wasn’t difficult either.

He picked her not only because she was the oldest of the girls, but also because out of all of them she seemed the most interesting, a real challenge. All he wanted to do was make it right. Make the pain go away. Her pain. He charmed, wooed her and promised to take care of her. It cost him nothing.

No sooner was he back than he found himself slipping into his old ways. Maybe it was the smell of the country or taste of the Guinness, but he just couldn’t resist the draw of the cards. He was careful not to revisit his old haunts, but found new ones, better, more lucrative ones that had sprung up while he was gone. Promising himself that this was only a hobby, he managed well at the start, balancing small wins with small losses and exercising a control that his Gambling Anonymous mentor in Pretoria would have been proud of. That’s what he told himself anyway. But as the years passed and boredom set in, self-control, like his first wife, left him to fend for himself. So he was right back to square one.

Then he heard Brady was to be released a little earlier than he was expecting. He had half-formed plans to disappear and relocate the following year to Spain, but Tommo's warning visit to his house meant he had to act fast, without perfecting his plans. As Tommo had gleefully revealed, his cover had been betrayed by himself of all people, in a bar one night after too many Jack Daniels, trying to impress a young lady, who by great misfortune happened to be employed by Brady's empire.

It was time to go.

* * *

Now, looking at Esmée across the table in the rainy Spanish square, it was time to reel her in. Again.

He splayed his palms flat out on the table in a self-righteous display of accepted defeat.

“All right,” he began, making a deliberate show of preparing himself to bare all, “I am a gambling addict. I have an addiction: an illness. Cards are my thing, poker to be exact.” He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the table. “I lost everything I had – Julie and I had – and more. I hadn’t paid the mortgage in months and my credit cards were maxed out. I lost it all.” He risked a quick glance upwards to gauge her reaction. She was blank. “Anyway,” he continued, taking a deep breath, “I had the chance of one last game, a game that would change everything, if I won. The stakes were high, but I wasn’t thinking straight. I was sure I could win. I’d played most of the guys before: they were amateurs. I was better than all of them. I was the player. Brady was there that night. We’d been up against each other before but he didn’t really register. Anyway, that night he won and I lost. Simple as.” He paused, eyes lowered, sighed and continued. “I had nothing else to sell, nothing of any great value anyway. That’s when Brady came up with the plan.” He stopped to swallow. “The robbery was meant to settle my debt to him. But, well, you know what happened there.” He looked at her properly this time. He couldn’t read her, her face, the wall of silence. “I was such a disappointment to Julie and Harry. I’d let them down. I was so ashamed. There was no way I could have made up for that. So I ran.” He let out a repressed sigh, fixing a pained expression on his face. “But I was wrong. I shouldn’t have run,” he finished, sure his soliloquy had breached her defensive bastion. But when he looked up again he saw only disgust.

“Esmée!” he implored, trying again. “I paid the price. Please don’t punish me again!”

He leant towards her, catching her stare, which she held on to, and leaning in to match his stance she whispered, “And what about me. What was I?”

“You? Well . . .” he searched, “you were . . .” He was lost for words and decided on a different approach: a kind of honesty. “At the start, yes, I admit, I was fascinated by you, by you all. And yes, I did track you. I wanted to help.”

“Help! You wanted to help? Well, let me tell you, Philip or Robert or whatever the hell your name is, the only person who needed help was you!” She was revolted by him. She could see through his lies and barefaced excuses. Empowered by her animosity towards him and invigorated by her hurt, she wasn’t willing to be held captive any more.

“Just let me explain, Esmée –”

“Explain? You must be kidding, right? I don’t want your explanations.”

“I need to tell you, I need you to believe me . . .”

“But I can’t believe you, Philip, can I? I don’t even know you. I don’t know who you are.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Esmée!” he shouted. “It’s not as bad as you think!” His booming voice resonated through the empty square, the pursuing silence deafening.

Esmée let the silence rest and his words sink in before replying. “Not as bad as I think? Are you mental? Philip, I’ve actually met Brady.” She paused to let the implications of the admission sink in. “I’ve had his breath on my face and his hand on my tits. He accosted me in the park with the kids, so don’t sit there and tell me it’s not as bad as I think. It’s
worse
than
you
think.” Her breath came short and heavy, compromised by her fury. “I’ve been questioned, interrogated, searched, humiliated and threatened. After all I’ve heard about you these last few weeks, Philip, I wouldn’t trust you with my spit!”

He was losing and he knew it. “I did it for you! I wanted to make it right.” But his words were weak and lacking integrity – they were dying words, words from a man grasping at straws.

“For me?” she exclaimed incredulously, pushing herself further forward. “Don’t you dare blame me for what you did. I never asked you to do anything for me.” Her words were sharp and firm. She wanted to slap him, hard. “You really are a coward, d’you know that?” she hissed venomously, her eyes tight and oozing contempt. “And don’t you dare lay your bullshit on me. You did this for no one but yourself.”

They didn’t notice the waiter until he coughed politely, looking over their heads uncomfortably.

“You wish to order now, yes?” he asked awkwardly in his cheerful English, mortified by the display he’d borne witness to.

Esmée picked up the menu only to throw it back down again immediately. “Actually, I’m not very hungry.” She wasn’t going to perform for anyone, no matter how embarrassing it would be.

Philip, without taking his eyes off her, spoke expertly in Spanish to the waiter. She had no idea what he was saying and couldn’t have cared less but, whatever he said, their server retrieved the menus and swiftly retreated. He’d probably go in and tell his comrades about the arguing diners, but she didn’t care.

She felt Philip’s eyes bore into her as she took a long desperate drink.

He was judging her, assessing her, wondering where this new-found confidence had come from, wondering what to do next. She was different, very different and it felt more than a little uncomfortable, this new power she had over him.

“Why did you bring me here, Philip?” she asked, repositioning her glass on the table, tired now of the little man who sat before her, tired of the man she thought she knew. His game was over and she wanted to go home, the reunion nothing more than a pitiful anti-climactic farce. “What do you want?”

His mood in response to her tone was shifting. He wasn’t enjoying this woman. He didn’t care for the lack of respect and the nasty tone of her voice. There was no need for that. He did, after all, really do it for her. Her and her stupid family. When, he wondered, had she become so ungrateful? He was going to give this one more try. And then after that if she didn’t comply he’d have to take up a different tack. He would give her one last chance, then his patience was used up.

“I miss you, Esmée,” he gushed. “I want you to join me, come out here. We can start afresh just you, me and the kids.” He held out his hand to her, willing her to take it, to see sense.

“You’re kidding, right?” Was it possible that this man had the audacity to believe his offer was, never mind tempting, even possible?

“Es, please don’t do this – the children need a father and you . . .” He didn’t need to expand any further.

“I need what? A man? A husband?” This time it was her turn to raise her voice.

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed as he looked around at the thankfully empty tables and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“You have no idea what I need – you haven’t even the remotest clue!” she screeched, indifferent to the now-concerned waiters who had gathered to peer out from behind the safety of the tinted glass window. “Well, let me tell you something, Philip Myers,” she continued savagely. “Whatever it is you’re so sure I need it sure as hell isn’t you!” She paused briefly to replenish her lungs. “You’re a liar, a cheat and a thief and believe me those qualities don’t figure high on my criteria for the ideal husband. And if I had a choice, if I were left to pick a husband without being steered and manipulated, it – wouldn’t – be – you!” Her finger punctuated the last words, leaving no doubt that this time Philip had lost.

“Esmée! For God’s sake, calm down!”

His plea went unheard as her tongue, loosened by the wine, drove unrelenting on its verbal rampage.

“You’re not sorry, you’re not even remotely ashamed of what you’ve done and you expect me to move here with our children, leave everything behind and live a life on the run funded by your ill-gotten gains?” She was bordering on hysteria, inflamed by his words.

“Es, I’m warning you!”

“You’re mad, Philip, do you know that? And you can stop calling me ‘Es’. I’m not your Es any more, and in case you forgot, I left you before you left me.” Breathless and spent, she stood and yanked her bag from the back of the chair, knocking it over as she went, feeling remarkably lighter than when she arrived, a burden gone from her weight-laden shoulders. She was done. They were well and truly over. There was nothing to achieve by remaining. But she had one last message to give him.