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Apart from the workshop in front of us, which I presumed was where we were headed, the only other light I could see was a dim yellow glow from the window of another shack some three hundred yards away. It may as well have been three hundred miles. It was too far to make a run for it, especially in my current condition, and the bitter wind that whipped and slapped around me would snatch any words from my mouth as soon as they were uttered. Even if I could make it that far there wasn’t even a guarantee that there was someone there just because a light was on.
The scent of diesel, rotting kelp and a top note of sewage from a leaking pipe somewhere close by gave me an unpleasant reminder that less than twenty-four hours earlier I’d been puking my innards out on my bathroom floor, but before I’d had time to steady myself I received a hard shove between my shoulder blades and I stumbled towards the ramshackle industrial unit that loomed out of the darkness.
Ciaran used one massive, bruised knuckle to tap on the door and I heard footsteps approaching us from inside. It was time for my last shot, and I turned so that I faced O’Halloran.
“So, what did it feel like to get rid of that turbulent priest?” I asked.
The great hulking oaf may not have got the historical reference but that stricken expression on his face told me everything I needed to know: I’d guessed right and Ciaran O’Halloran had murdered Father McKenna. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter another word the door to the shack opened and Michael Albermarle stood on the other side of the threshold.
“Lilith, welcome! Do come in; it’s so lovely to finally meet you properly at long last, after all those tantalising little glimpse across the courtroom. Now, do you want to see what I’ve got?” he asked me with child-like glee, and gestured at me to step forward.
I didn’t move as I slowly and deliberately appraised him from head to toe. “No, but judging by your appearance, I’d take a guess at late-stage tertiary syphilis,” I replied.
“Ah, there’s that famous Lilith Bresson wit. And may I just say, I feel truly honoured to have experienced it.” He gave me a thin smile. “But what I actually have is your traitorous shit of a boyfriend. So shall we go inside and say hello? I always find reunions so heartwarming.”
Finn
I had tried to reassure myself that Lili would have done the sensible thing. That she’d run, or just hide until it was all over then get herself to safety and screw the idiot Irishman who’d amazingly managed to fall into the deepest cesspit of his life thus far… Then I heard a voice I’d recognise in a crowd of thousands.
“I do love what you’ve done with the place. Shabby chic, isn’t that what they call it? A little last decade, but good effort,” Lilith Bresson, world-renowned artist and only daughter of a British Knight of the Realm, drawled.
Yeah, right. As if she’d run. And oh, as much as I wanted Lili to be a thousand miles away there was a selfish part of me that could have cried with relief at seeing her diminutive frame appear in the doorway with the disdainful expression of someone walking into a sub-par hotel room.
I might have worried that her indifference was an indication of betrayal, but as she walked into the workshop she deliberately caught my gaze and her glacial blue eyes warmed momentarily just for me. It lasted the merest fraction of a second, but in just that one evanescent glance she managed to impart every last iota of love and tenderness and vulnerability we had ever shared with each other before I saw her shield herself behind the carapace of Lilith Bresson once more.
Lilith
Some bizarre vision of Hell that would have made Bosch himself proud awaited me in the ramshackle industrial unit. A string of garish multicoloured fairy lights swung gently above a trestle table that had been covered with a white tablecloth and laid as if for a clichéd formal dinner, right down to a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, two flutes, and a single, wilting red rose in a stem vase. Somewhere in a parallel universe this was someone’s big romantic moment; a proposal perhaps, or a precious stolen evening between two penniless and star-crossed lovers. However in this particular situation, the scene looked like nothing more than a macabre joke, because in the centre of the space, maybe five yards from where we stood, Finn was bound to a mobile gantry by his wrists and ankles, and clad only in his jeans. He was shivering and had a fresh and weeping sore on his chest that looked very much like a deliberately inflicted burn, and I didn’t want to think what had caused it in such a short time.
The man I loved looked like a deer carcass hung for draining, and the only positive I could find was that he was still breathing. As much as I wanted to grab the handcuff keys, release him and then run away from the resulting explosion in the style of a Hollywood hero, there wasn’t a hope in hell of me doing any of that; all I could do was keep mouthing off, pushing at the boundaries until hopefully something might start to crack.
Michael came to stand by my side and placed his left hand in the small of my back and directed me towards Finn. “You know, I had the most beautiful ball gag picked out for him for tonight, but it seems I’d left it behind. However my mother taught me that at least one can always rely on duct tape; I mean, it doesn’t look particularly glamorous, but it certainly does the job. I took it off when I branded him though – it was rather delicious to hear that tortured scream again after all this time, and it’s made me realise that I can’t wait to hear more.”
So that was what had caused the burn on Finn’s chest. I wasn’t entirely sure what Michael wanted my reaction to be. I took a guess at horror, or fury, or fear, so despite the real terror that I truly felt I aimed for the same infuriating bored disdain that I’d utilized to good effect so often in the past, and used the heavy silence that followed to shift my focus from Finn and take my first close look at Lady Blaine Albermarle’s eldest progeny.
Up until this moment, I’d only ever seen him glowering at me across the courtroom on the one occasion he’d shown up at his mother’s trial, and instinct drove me to take in whatever detail I currently could; either as an artist, or for any scrap of information that might help Finn and me escape our predicament.
Michael Albermarle was twenty-five years old, six feet tall, and possessed every element of his mother’s haughty, blond Aryan-Ideal beauty – the same strong nose, high forehead and arrogant jaw – but even at this young age he was already showing signs that his dissolute lifestyle was starting to chip the gilding away.
His artfully highlighted blond hair had been combed forward with great care in a desperate attempt to hide the fact that male pattern baldness was steadily ridding him of what he clearly considered his crowning glory. The spider veins of a committed drinker bloomed across his nose and those exquisitely sculpted cheekbones, and his complexion was dulled and sallow where alcohol was already beginning to destroy the collagen that held together his ephemeral glamour; I estimated that he only had a year or so at best before developing full-on jowls as his face started to collapse in on itself.
He was clad in deceptively expensive black jeans and a khaki fisherman’s sweater that showed off a fashionably angular frame that had far more to do with a dedicated drug habit than healthy eating and an active lifestyle; he was already as wired as all hell, and dangerous little lights of madness flickered in his eyes. I was going to go with an addiction to cocaine, or doubtless whatever other cheap illegal stimulant he could get his hands on or – more likely – afford, and the nasal tone to an already slightly high-pitched voice suggested his septum was already disintegrating from the narcotic abuse it was receiving.
As he took another half-step closer to me I breathed in the ketone-laden acetone smell of a man rotting from the inside out, albeit far too slowly to be of any benefit to Finn and me.
“I realise this whole situation must be something of a shock to you. So, is there anything you want to say?” Michael asked, finally forced to break the silence.
“No, not really,” I replied, and walked back to the table. As I turned I saw Michael’s face tighten in a brief flash of surprised anger at my unexpected lack of response to his meticulously arranged tableau, then he straightened his shoulders and became the louche charmer once more.
“God, how terribly rude of me; you do look like you’ve been on a rather uncomfortable journey. Let me release you from your bonds,” he said, as if the previous exchange had never happened. He took a small set of keys from his back pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. I winced and rubbed at my wrists to encourage the circulation to return, then took a precautionary blast of my inhaler.
“Please Lilith, won’t you take a seat?” Michael waved his arm in the direction of that ridiculous table set-up. In truth I had such little energy left that I was going to need to sit down before I collapsed, even if it was only for a few minutes, so I snagged a chair back with my foot before mine host could pretend to be a gentleman and pull it back for me.
He joined me at the other side of the table, reached for the Champagne bottle and began to uncork. “I think it’s beyond time we had a proper chat, you and I. Would you like to join me in a glass whilst we talk?” he asked, doubtless trying to emulate the slick charm of his mother. “It’s a rather superb vintage.”
He held the bottle out to me to show me the label – it was a decent-enough Veuve Clicquot, but hardly ‘superb’ – and I met his eyes and gave him a tight little smile. “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap,” I replied.
Finn
