The Birthday Girl (11 page)

'Mr Sabatino? Mr Sabatino, it's me. Maury.'

'This is not a good time, Maury,' Sabatino said. The black girl lifted her head but he clamped his hand on her neck and pushed her back down.

'It's important,' Anderson said.

'It's gonna have to wait.' Sabatino could feel himself building to a climax. He opened his legs wider and the girl moved her head faster. She grunted in time with her movements, small animal-like sounds that excited Sabatino even more.

On the screen, the brunette turned around and began to play self-consciously with her small breasts. He could see her nipples harden under die white cotton material. Sabatino moaned. She looked so young with her hair soaked. Fifteen maybe. He began to push himself further into the black girl's mouth, trying to go in as far as he could. He felt her gag but he pressed her neck down and pounded into her.

'Are you okay, Mr Sabatino?' Anderson asked.

/ 85 J Sabatino ignored him. He grunted as he came, his last few strokes lifting his backside off the chair. The brunette stepped out of the shower, waved to the audience, and skipped off the stage. Sabatino settled back in his chair and pushed the black girl away. She fell on the floor, her legs sprawled wide and her hair in disarray.

'Mr Sabatino, what's going on?'

'Nothing,' Sabatino snapped, holding the phone against his ear with his left shoulder as he zipped up his trousers. 'Just give me a minute, will ya?' The black girl lay on the floor where she'd fallen. Sabatino glared at her and waved her away. The feelings of lust had evaporated and now he felt only disgust for the teenager. He watched her as she picked up her clothes and dressed. She seemed to realise how his feelings had changed and she kept her back to him.

'Mr Sabatino? We've got a problem.'

'We? What do you mean, we?' Sabatino's voice was ice cold.

'This guy I told you about, the bank's representative on the board. Nelson.'

'Yeah, what about him?'

'He wants to shut down the company and transfer production overseas. Says it'll save us millions.'

'He's probably right,' Sabatino agreed. The girl squeezed into her tight pants, bouncing from foot to foot. Sabatino had a sudden urge to hurt the girl, to tie her down and whip her until she bled. He wanted to mark the perfect skin, to scar her for ever, a permanent reminder of the power he had over her. He'd seen fear and pain in the girl's eyes, but Sabatino wanted more. Much more. She fastened her shirt and grabbed her boots, running out of the office barefoot as if she knew what he had on his mind. He wondered if she realised how lucky she was that he was on the phone.

'Yeah, but that's not all,' Anderson continued. 'He wasn't happy at Ventura increasing its stake in the company. He said he didn't understand why you'd want to put more money into the company, what with the problems we're having and all.'

'By “you”, I hope you mean the partnership and not me personally.'

'Oh, sure, yeah, he doesn't know who's involved, though he did say that he wanted to make some enquiries. And, Mr Sabatino, he's really going to give our books a going over. I'm not sure how well they'll stand up to close inspection, if you know what I mean. Some of the amounts you've been putting through our accounts are pretty big, you know?'

'Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,' Sabatino said. 'Well, thanks for bringing this to my attention, Maury. I'll take it from here.' He replaced the receiver, sat back in his chair and stared at the bank of video monitors. The girl in the shower cubicle was in her twenties and carrying several pounds more than was good for her. Loose rolls of fat vibrated around her hips and her thighs jiggled more than her breasts. Sabatino shuddered.

Mersiha ran her hands through her hair and tried not to look at Dr Brown. They were nearing the end of the session and his soft, insistent voice was beginning to annoy her. She wanted to walk out of the office, to tell him to leave her alone, but Katherine was waiting outside and leaving would cause more problems than it would solve.

They were covering the same old ground. How was she sleeping? Not good. Was she having nightmares? Yes. How was she getting on at school? Fine. What did she think the problem was? She didn't know. She had expected the psychiatrist to , mention the fact that he'd asked to see Katherine, but he hadn't raised it. The fact that he hadn't, worried Mersiha. She felt that they were going behind her back for some ulterior motive, but she had no idea what that motive might be. Katherine hadn't mentioned it either.

'Mersiha, why don't you regard Katherine as your mother?'

The question caught Mersiha by surprise and she turned to look at Dr Brown, her mouth open. 'Excuse me?' she said.

'You call your father “Dad” but you don't call Katherine “Mom”.'

Mersiha raised her eyebrows. 'She isn't my mother.'

Dr Brown nodded. 'But Tony isn't your father, either. Strictly speaking.'

Mersiha's brow furrowed. 'They're my parents now. I know that. I mean, I know they're not my real parents, but they are my parents. If you see what I mean.'

The psychiatrist smiled as if he understood everything. 'Do you feel closer to your dad than Katherine, is that it?'

Mersiha shrugged. 'Maybe.'

'Because you knew him first?'

'Because he saved my life,' she said flatly. 'Because if it wasn't for him, I'd be dead.'

'And when did you first call him “Dad”? Can you remember?'

'After I came to America, I guess. I don't think I ever called him anything else.'

Dr Brown wrote something down on the notepad on his desk. 'And you've never felt like calling Katherine “Mom”? It's always Katherine?'

'I guess so.'

'Why do you think that is?'

'I don't know. Has she mentioned it to you?'

'I've discussed it with her, but only in the context of how you relate to your new family.'

'My only family,' she corrected him.

Dr Brown inclined his head, conceding the point. 'You still miss your real mother, don't you?'

'Of course. I miss all my family.'

'And you think of them often?'

Mersiha could feel tears welling up in her eyes and she blinked. She stared at the blinds on the window. It wasn't fair of him to try to manipulate her like this. He only wanted to see her cry.

'Perhaps you should try calling her “Mom”. I think she'd like that.'

'It doesn't feel right. Not yet. When the time's right, I will.' She wanted to rub her eyes but she kept her hands down by her sides.

'Would you like to tell me what happened to your real mother?' His voice was soft and coaxing, like a child molester's.

'No,' Mersiha said firmly. She looked at her wristwatch.

Dr Brown sat in silence, waiting to see if she would say anything else, but Mersiha continued to stare at the blinds. 'Okay, Mersiha, let's call it a day,' he said eventually. 'You go and wait in the car while I have a word with your mother.' He smiled without warmth. 'With Katherine,' he added.

Mersiha let herself out of the office and walked over to Katherine's car. It was a warm day and she didn't feel like sitting, so she paced up and down, replaying the session in her mind. She hated the way Dr Brown tried to second-guess her all the time. It was as if he were playing mind games with her.

She looked over at the window of Dr Brown's office, wondering what he was telling Katherine, what they were saying about her. She frowned as she noticed that the blinds were closed. She was sure they had been open before. She put her head on one side and stared at the blinds, a growing feeling of dread in her heart. She began walking towards the window as if her legs had a life of their own. There was a narrow gap at the bottom of the blinds and she bent down and pressed her face to the window. Dr Brown's desk obscured most of the view but she could just make out two figures, standing in front of the bookcase. Dr Brown and Katherine, holding each other, kissing so hard it was as if they were trying to devour each other. Mersiha watched, horrified.

Mersiha lay on her back, staring at the ceiling and wishing that time would pass more quickly. She looked across at the Mickey Mouse alarm clock on her bedside table. Mickey's right arm had to move through another twenty minutes before she'd go downstairs. From the bed she could see the full moon glaring balefully down. She had no alternative, she knew that. She'd considered telling her father, but she had no wish to see him hurt. Besides, what if he divorced Katherine, what then? More than half the kids in her class had divorced parents and they seemed to split into two camps: those who spent all their time shuttling THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 89 between two homes and those who saw their fathers only every second Saturday. No. She couldn't face that. Whatever she did, her paramount concern was to keep her father happy.

One of Mersiha's first thoughts had been to confront Katherine, to tell her that she knew what she'd been up to and that she was to stop the affair immediately. But if she did that the relationship between them would sour for ever. And Mersiha was also scared that if she did try to put pressure on Katherine, she'd walk out. Mersiha knew that her adoptive parents had a rocky relationship. She'd heard them arguing late at night when they thought she was asleep, usually about money and occasionally about Luke. If Katherine knew that Mersiha had discovered the affair, it might be the last straw. Despite the arguments, she knew that her father loved Katherine, and it would break his heart if she left. That left only one course of action.

Mersiha looked across at the alarm clock. Fifteen more minutes. She wasn't worried about her parents hearing her moving about the house, but if they were awake they'd be sure to hear the car starting up. If there were any other way she'd have preferred not to have used the car, but Dr Brown lived more than twenty miles away in Parkton, to the north of Baltimore, and she could hardly call a taxi. She looked at the clock again. The minute-hand had barely moved. Mersiha decided not to wait any longer. It was agony lying and waiting. She had to do something or she'd go crazy.

She sat up and reached for the small flashlight she'd put in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet. She'd bought new batteries at a Rite-Aid store on the way to school the previous day. She switched the flashlight on and placed it on the bed so that it illuminated the closet. She took off her nightgown and slipped it under her pillow. The clothes she'd decided to wear - black Levi jeans and a black turtleneck pullover - were under her bed. She put them on, then slipped black boating shoes on to her feet. Her Baltimore Orioles baseball cap was on the chair by the window and she put it on, tucking her hair inside it. Her collection of stuffed animals sat together under the window. She put two of the biggest, a green hippo and a honey-coloured teddy bear, under the quilt and patted it down so that it gave the impression 90 STEPHEN LEATHER of a sleeping body. She picked up the flashlight and listened at the bedroom door. Once she was sure that the house was completely silent she pulled it slowly open and tiptoed into the hall and down the stairs, holding her breath all the way.

The door to her father's study was open and she crept inside. The cabinet where her father kept his guns was to the left of his desk, so she sat in his chair while she spun the combination lock. She'd seen him open it on several occasions, though she doubted that he realised that she'd memorised the combination. Fifteen to the left, eight to the right, nineteen to the left. Click. She pulled the door open and knelt down by the side of the cabinet. She sat back on her heels and looked at the wooden stocks and metal barrels as they gleamed in the moonlight. There were two pump-action shotguns which Tony and Katherine used when they went clay pigeon shooting at Loch Raven. Alongside them were several hunting rifles which used to belong to Katherine's father. He had died the year before Mersiha had come to America. Tony Freeman never hunted, but Katherine had refused to get rid of the guns and Tony respected her wishes to the extent that once a month he took them out and thoroughly cleaned and oiled them. Mersiha had sat and watched as he worked on the weapons, but he'd never allowed her to help.

On racks at the top of the metal-lined cabinet was a collection of pistols, all of which had been owned by Katherine's father. Several were collector's items, almost antiques, and until Mersiha had arrived they'd been on display on the wall. There were several turn-of-the-century Colts, an 1891 pearl-handled single-shot Smith and Wesson, a British Webley-Mars which had been used in the First World War, and others that Mersiha wasn't able to identify. There were several modern handguns, too, because Katherine's father had been a devout believer in self-defence. Some of the handguns were extremely powerful - a .357 Magnum-calibre Colt Python and a .44 Ruger Super Blackhawk - but Mersiha knew exactly which gun she wanted. It was in a case at the bottom of the cabinet, a Heckler & Koch HK-4. It was similar to a gun her brother had used in Bosnia. What made it different from most other guns was that it came with four separate barrels, springs and magazines so that it could THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 91 be assembled in four different configurations, allowing it to make use of different-calibre bullets: .22 LR, .25 ACP, .32 ACP, and .380 ACP. Mersiha's brother had always said that they never knew what ammunition they'd pick up, so the HK-4 gave him a flexibility that might one day save their lives. Mersiha smiled grimly. How wrong he'd been.

She took the case down and opened it. The gun lay in a thick piece of foam rubber, all its various extra components laid out in their own pre-cut slots. The gun was in its .380 ACP configuration which wasn't what Mersiha wanted, so she broke it down and reassembled it using the .22 LR components. At first she couldn't lift off the slide and barrel, then she remembered that she had to depress the latch in the trigger guard first. She felt as if her brother were chuckling over her shoulder as she moved the slide and barrel forward and then up.

When she was finished she put the case back on its shelf and closed the cabinet. From the bottom drawer of her father's desk she took a small steel key. The safe where her father kept the ammunition was set into the floor under a wooden panel behind the door. There was a box of .22 cartridges there and she took out half a dozen and one by one slotted them into the gun's magazine. She closed her eyes and held the gun against her cheek, the metal cold to the touch. The memories flooded back. Her brother, shooting a Serb soldier in the back as he was running away, then laughing and shooting him again in the head as he lay on the floor. Her brother holding the gun to the groin of a Serb sniper, taunting him before blowing his manhood off. It seemed as if all her recollections of Stjepan involved the gun. She opened her eyes and tried to imagine her brother without a gun in his hand. It was hard. She sifted through the mental images that were all that remained of him. There was always a gun or a rifle there somewhere. She tried going back, to the time before the Serbian invasion of her homeland, to the time when their mother had taught them English on the kitchen table after they'd cleared the supper plates away. She could hold that picture in her head, the way their mother had tutted whenever they made a mistake, the way she'd smiled when they'd done well, but her memory played tricks with her. Instead of a pencil 92 STEPHEN LEATHER in Stjepan's hand, there was a gun. The gun. The HK-4. They'd taken everything from her, the Serbs. They'd taken her parents. Her brother. And her memories. She realised with a jolt that her finger was tensing on the trigger and that the safety wasn't on. She looked at her wristwatch. It was time to go.