Forty 2 Days Read online

  The girl doesn’t answer. Simply slams shut the door and runs to the top of the stairs. She is so cocky she reminds me of Billie. I hear her shoes clattering down the stairs. She runs past me, dirty stained top, yellow shorts and brown legs. And suddenly, I am racked by a sense of deep nostalgia for those times when Billie and I ran free. Summer days. Fingers sticky with ice lollies. Not a single responsibility in sight. I watch the girl turn down the road towards the shops. Then I slowly begin to walk towards the tower block flats where Billie and I now live.

  It is a horrible place, far, far worse than this small, friendly block. If Blake saw where we live now, he would literally have a heart attack. All his worst nightmares are realized here. Prostitutes work the underpass and there are fights and stabbings when the pubs clear at night. Their drunken shouting and cursing floats up to our flat. Inside our block it is no better. The lifts perpetually smell of stale urine and the stairwells are littered with blood-filled hypodermic syringes and used condoms. Kids play among the needles in the morning.

  I live here, but in my heart I am absolutely determined that it will only be temporary. I intend to work hard, make our business work and, hopefully, by the time Sorab is old enough to walk the three of us will be out of here. A sign says no ball games and no dumping of rubbish. In defiance the place is littered with empty cans and someone has simply tipped a badly stained mattress over one of the long balcony walkways of the tower.

  I pass the children playing on the concourse.

  ‘Hey, Lana, we saw you get out of a big car by the shops. Whose car is it?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ I tell them tartly.

  ‘Somebody’s got a sugar daddy,’ they sing, and I am surprised anew by how clued up these kids are. At their age, my innocence was complete, my childhood totally unsoiled by any adult knowledge.

  One of them breaks from the group and sidles up to me. ‘Go on, give us a pound to buy some sweets,’ she cajoles. She has a head full of bouncing brown curls.

  I look down at her. ‘Does your mother know you are begging for money?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she pipes up immediately, standing her ground without the least trace of embarrassment.

  I look into her eyes and feel sad. I know her mother. A hard-faced woman with six kids. Each one from a different father, all dirty and unkempt. For a split second I consider teaching her not to beg, to have pride, and then I give up. I know in my heart it is pointless. I wish a different future for her, but she is already infected by the generation before her. In her round, beautiful face walks the shadow of a drop-out, perhaps even an alcoholic. A blight on society through no fault of her own. I reach into my purse and give her a pound. She grasps it in her small, hot palm and runs off in the direction of the shops, calling after her. ‘Thanks, Lana.’

  I skirt the weeds and step onto the cracked concrete. Moodily I kick a Coke can out of my path and round the block. I look up to the second floor of the ugly gray block and see Billie standing on the long walkway balcony outside our door. She is smoking a cigarette and leaning against the metal railing. One of her bare feet is curled around a metal bar. Her hair is no longer white, but flaming red. She changed the color and the style last week when she broke up with Leticia. It is now cut very close to her head on one side and falls longer on the other. She must have just got out of the bath, for her hair is still wet and slicked to her head. She does not see me.

  I run up the smelly stairs and step on to our level. She looks up from her contemplative stare and watches me. I step over discarded toys, a tricycle, a plastic bucket and spade, and then I am standing in front of her.

  I grin. She kills her cigarette on the metal railing. I fish out the vodka. She grins back. Hers is real, mine is not.

  She takes the bottle from my hand. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ I say.

  She puts the bottle on the ground, grabs me around the hips, and sweeps me off my feet, laughing. Her joy is so infectious I have to laugh.

  ‘Put me down before you drop me over the balcony!’

  Instead of setting me back down she whirls me around a couple of times, carries me over our threshold and kicks the door shut like a man, before setting me down on the dining table.

  ‘You. Are. A. Fucking. Genius,’ she says. Then her face undergoes a sudden change. ‘Oh, shit,’ she cusses and dashes outside. And she is just in time too. ‘Oi you,’ I hear her shout. ‘Touch that bottle and you’re dead.’ There is the sound of little feet scuttling away and Billie comes back into view cradling the vodka bottle.

  I slip off the table. ‘How did it go with Sorab?’

  ‘The usual, you know, eat, shit, sleep, repeat,’ she says, and thumps the bottle on the table.

  ‘Let me have a quick peek,’ I say, and go into my bedroom. I stand in front of his crib, my heart heavy with sadness. He has no one, but me. He will never know his father. I have denied him his father and a life of unimaginable riches. I push the guilt away. Not now. Not yet. For a moment I think of Blake standing alone in the crowd. We are all of us alone trapped in our own version of hell. I gently trace my finger on his sleeping arm and go outside.

  Billie is sitting at the table. The vodka bottle is unopened.

  I slip my jacket off. It is too big for me and swings from my shoulder. I open the fridge. ‘I’m going to make some pasta. Want some?’

  ‘No, had a couple of Turkish Delights.’

  ‘Bill, you can’t survive on leftover pizza, jam, and chocolates, you know.’

  ‘It’s not me who looks like a walking skeleton.’ She stares at me daring me to contradict her.

  I close the fridge door and face her.

  ‘You know, when I saw you walking home with the plastic bag from the newsagent I didn’t dare believe, because I could see that you had been crying. I’d like to think you cried because you were so happy but that’s not it, is it? Want to tell me what really happened?’

  I sit opposite her. ‘Blake was there.’

  Billie pulls forward with a frown. ‘There where?’

  ‘At the bank. He processed our loan application.’

  ‘Don’t. You’re going to make me cry.’

  ‘Can you bite back the sarcastic remarks for one moment?’

  She raises her hands, palms facing me.

  ‘Apparently he has been monitoring my account with the intention of making contact.’

  Billie opens her eyes wide. ‘Wow! That’s tenacious.’

  ‘He wants me to finish the contract.’

  Billie closes her eyes in a gesture of extreme exasperation. ‘Oh God! You agreed or we wouldn’t have got the loan, would we?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, but before I can tell her more she leans forward, her chin jutting out aggressively.

  ‘Lana. Are you completely crazy? Have you forgotten what that bloodless troll he is engaged to and those reptilian entities masquerading as his family did to you the last time? They closed ranks and kicked you out of the fucking country. Anyway, didn’t she make you sign in blood never to go near her man again?’

  I flush. ‘No, simply that I must never make contact with him again. I didn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, she’ll appreciate the difference.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Blake said that he has told her about me and she is prepared to wait until he is over his infatuation with me.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  ‘Well, it was something like what she told me.’

  ‘If you believe that then you definitely should stay away from him. You are not equipped to deal with such lethal cunning.’

  ‘I won’t come into contact with her. It’s only 42 days.’

  ‘We don’t need the money, you know? We can always start small. We talked about this. In fact, it was unlikely that you were ever going to get the money without collateral or business experience. It was only an off chance. We’ll do without it. In fact, that might be more fun.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for the money,’ I say very quietly.

&nb
sp; There is a moment of shocked silence. Billie looks at me as if I have lost my mind. And in a way she is right. I am risking everything.

  ‘Fuck me, Lana. Have you forgotten how difficult it was for you to get over him?’

  ‘I’m not over him.’

  ‘Exactly. So why walk into the lion’s den again? Look at you. You are already just a shadow of yourself. Why put yourself through it? Besides the spectacular sex, that is.’

  I try to smile and don’t succeed. I feel my chin and lower lip begin to tremble. I press my lips together. ‘You don’t understand. I owe him. He was good to Mum and me, but I didn’t keep my word. I should never have taken Victoria’s money. It was wrong. I knew that the moment I saw it sitting all fat and jolly in that Swiss bank account. I’m not a Swiss bank account person. It was only when I gave it all away to that hospice that I felt better. I will only feel right again when I finish what I started. Until then I will never be able to close this door.’

  ‘And Sorab? Are you going to tell him about him?’

  ‘Of course not. They would take my son away and turn him into a cold-eyed predator, like Blake’s father and brother.’

  ‘So what happens to Sorab then?’

  I squirm a little. ‘I told Blake Sorab was yours.’

  ‘Right,’ she says slowly, obviously unable to get her head around such an idea.

  ‘He thinks you did it to jump the welfare queue and get a flat.’

  Billie grins suddenly. ‘So you didn’t tell him that as a child I wanted to have my entire reproductive system removed and replaced with an extra set of lungs so I could smoke more.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What does all this translate to then?’

  ‘You keep Sorab here for three days of the week and I keep him at the apartment for the other four days.’

  Billie draws a deep breath. ‘What does he imagine I am doing for the other four days?’

  ‘Spending the night at your girlfriend’s place.’

  ‘Jesus, I’m a shit mother, aren’t I?’

  ‘Do you mind terribly?’

  ‘I don’t give a monkey’s what he thinks of me, but are you OK with being apart from Sorab three days a week?’

  My little heart is breaking at the thought but I put on a brave face. ‘Well, it is only for 42 days and I was thinking that three weeks of that time I could say you are on holiday and Sorab is too young to go with you.’

  ‘And you think he’ll believe that?’

  ‘Quite frankly, I don’t think he cares enough to ponder the matter too deeply.’

  ‘I don’t want to take the philosophical upper hand here, but if it’ll all be over in 42 days, isn’t this all a bit…unnecessary?’

  I trace my fingernail along the wood grain of our kitchen table. We bought it in a charity shop for twenty pounds. It has two cigarette burn marks on the surface, but I rather like it. It has character, a story to tell.

  ‘I know you think I am being foolish, but have you never had someone touch you and you go up in flames? Or that odd sensation as if your bones are melting and your ears ring like bells in your head?’

  ‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘And judging from what it has reduced you to… No thanks. I enjoy my self-control. My ability to say no and walk away from a situation that screams danger or abuse ahead.’

  ‘Don’t you miss Leticia, Billie?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but… ’She looks at me meaningfully… ‘Unlike you I have never had to crawl around the floor with missing her.’

  I lower my eyes. Once many months ago when I first left the country I was reduced to crawling on the floor, but that intense pain passed. His reappearance, though, has awakened new realms of need and craving.

  ‘I can say no, but I still miss him, Bill. I miss him like crazy. Even if there is no hope, I still want whatever I can have. I want him on any terms. I actually find it impossible to resist him.’

  She sighs elaborately. ‘OK, it is your life. When does this charade start then?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I guess we won’t need a babysitter for Friday night, will we?’

  I make an apologetic face. ‘Sorry. Can you babysit tomorrow?’

  ‘While you bang Banker Boy? Sure, why not. I hope that kid remembers what I have done for him when he grows up.’

  I smile gratefully.

  She fills two glasses with vodka and pushes one towards me. ‘Here’s to Sorab.’ I don’t want a drink. I am all churned up, but we clink and down. The alcohol burns the back of my throat. This is no celebration. Not for me and not for Billie. When our eyes meet again, hers are unsmiling; they warn me I am making a dreadful mistake.

  Five

  By nine o’clock the next morning, Sorab is fed and bathed and I am nervously checking my mobile to see if the battery is low, but it is fully charged and the reception is good. Blake’s secretary’s brisk, efficient voice comes through at 9:05.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Bloom.’

  ‘Hi, Mrs. Arnold.’

  ‘Is this a good time to talk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ she says briskly, and then falters for a second. ‘I…uh… How have you been?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘That’s good. Are you still on contraceptives?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!’ It is clear she cannot understand why I have come off them.

  Again the lies trip off my tongue so easily they surprise me. ‘I have been in Iran. There was no need for them. Besides they are difficult to buy over there.’

  ‘I will schedule an appointment with the nurse for a repeat prescription.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Next you will meet with the lawyer and then Fleur will take you shopping, and afterwards you have an appointment with the hairdresser, followed by appointments at the nail and wax bar.’

  Suddenly I am swamped with a sense of déjà vu. I’ve done this before. Definitely. First time I was naïve. Stupid. That first kiss, it had blown me away, but now I know… I am the ‘unnecessary, unwanted thirst’. The man who thirsts for me also despises me.

  But then I thought it was all a fantastic adventure. A romantic dream. How I had jumped in with both feet. All I knew about him and his family was what Bill had read out to me from the Internet. Now I have done my research, sitting alone and pregnant by a window in Iran and I know a lot, a lot more about the great Barrington clan.

  I know for example that there are no fewer than a hundred and fifty-three species or subspecies of insect which bear the name Barrington, fifty-eight birds, eighteen mammals and fourteen plants including a rare slipper orchid, three fish, two spiders and two reptiles. Numerous streets around the world and dishes have been named after them too. The only dish I still remember is the one with prawns, cognac, and Gruyère on toast.

  They are the twenty-first-century Medicis, offering patronage to artists, writers, and architects. I learned about the houses they have donated to the people and the staggering amounts of money they have expanded into beneficiaries ranging from universities, hospitals, pubic libraries, charities, non profit institutions and archaeological digs. But Blake had already explained how the very rich play the philanthropic game to me. Steal from millions over a long period and give a small portion back as a taxable gift.

  Over the weeks I came to realize that Blake’s words were true. If you see it in Wikipedia or a mainstream news outlet then we have planted it. That everything I read and saw about the Barrington family and history was part of a picture, a false picture. They wanted the world to believe the bogus biographies that they themselves had commissioned, all of which declared their family as a once great dynasty that had since lost most of its wealth and influence. It was the picture of a benign, powerless house that jealously guarded its privacy.

  Then I came across a Youtube video of Blake’s father. There he was not the cold-eyed man who wanted to arbitrarily dismiss me to the toilet so he could talk to his son. Dressed in an expensive cashmere c
oat and metal rimmed glasses he worried about the world economy in a mild mannered way. His opinion: more austerity measures should be implemented worldwide before any recovery could be achieved. His silver hair made him look like someone’s grandfather, but as I watched him I felt a cold shiver go up my spine.

  At his transformation.

  At the benevolent role he had so easily and effectively slipped into. If I had not seen the frosty arrogance with which, the blue stones had snubbed me I would never have believed these two men were the same person, but it gives chilling credence to Blake’s warning that nothing in his world is as it seems to those in mine. That was when I began to search through the conspiracy sites. And they were rife with ‘information’.

  The Barringtons were blamed for everything from secretly starting the American Civil War in order to capture the monetary system, precipitating the American bank panic of 1907, to duping Congress into approving The Fed in 1913, to funding the Bolsheviks and Hitler. They were even accused of having a hand in the assassination of Kennedy. I gave up after a while.

  There was one thing they got right, though.

  They refused to believe the fairy tale that the Barringtons were a declining dynasty, whose members could not even make the Forbes rich list. As far as they were concerned the Barringtons were one of thirteen old families. Through complicated structures of off-shores companies they owned all the debt of all the countries. They were trillionaires and the true rulers behind governments and world organizations. To be a Barrington is to be a modern Croesus, a twentieth-century Midas.

  ‘Is it all right if Tom knocks on your door at 10:00 am?’ Laura Arnold asks.

  The state of the lift flashes into my mind and I feel ashamed. ‘No. Just ask him to call me on my mobile when he gets close to the flat. I’ll come down.’

  ‘All right then. Have a nice day, Miss Bloom.’

  I thank her and end the call. As I place the phone on the dining table Billie walks in. Her eyes are half-shut. She goes to the fridge, takes a mouthful of orange juice straight from the carton and turns to face me. Her face is unsmiling.

  ‘What time are you leaving?’