Chapter 31
Paul’s hands shook as he packed his bag.
He could kick himself for hanging around to wait for the police, but Tilda told them it’s what everyone should do.
The last thing he wanted was to be flagged as a person of interest because he showed too little concern over the death of his partner.
Or too much interest because he was freaking out.
Jamie’s death had been gruesome.
He felt lost. He’d always been sure about what action to take. Certain of his convictions. Master of his destiny. Now though, he wasn’t so sure. The sensation of ambiguity troubled him. He didn’t know what to do with it.
And now Angelina. He’d genuinely almost vomited on the copper when she told him Angie was dead.
Beautiful, small, delicate and clever Angie. His first love. Unrequited. Taunting him from afar, reminding him how he wasn’t in her league. The artist, the ethereal untouchable sister of the man he envied to such an extent that he’d let resentment cloud his judgement.
He examined his behaviour towards the detective microscopically, and thought he’d done a pretty good job, all things considered.
He’d managed to pull off shock, grief and compassion all in one, he thought.
He’d given it his best shot. He wasn’t an actor; he was a salesman.
He’d made mistakes and he’d told the detective about his affair with the CEO.
It looked bad. That was his problem, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
He laughed at his own stupid thoughts. Salesmen are actors!
The first law of selling was to tell a story to your audience.
Being a sociopath also helped.
But it wasn’t necessarily a derogatory term these days.
Most professionals accepted that the attributes of somebody with a personality disorder were the same ones desirous for the world of hard-nosed commerce.
Buyers only wanted to see the illusion of empathy, reliability and trust. Sellers could acquire these things a variety of ways.
Charisma and charm were but two examples.
Manipulation and risk taking were arguably more valuable.
Paul thought he possessed a healthy balance of all of them.
But he’d never been as good as Jamie. That was why he’d accepted Hank’s offer so readily. His offer to work his way deeper into the core of Hampton-Dent. It involved becoming a lab rat and he’d willingly done it because he had nothing to lose.
Until he did.
Now, he understood they were obliterating his mind.
He glanced over at the remaining sachets of powder on his bedside table.
He was drinking too much of the goddam stuff.
He knew it. He was a grown-up. He knew when he was becoming addicted to something because he’d been hooked on most substances available on the open market (as well as the illegal ones) at one point or another in his life, and he could sense the slippery descent into losing control, but that was the whole point.
The chemicals made the nanotechnology work better.
He’d signed up for it. He knew what was at stake.
So did Jamie.
Until the night in New York that changed everything.
Jamie’s biggest mistake was introducing Angie to Hank Hampton. He loved her work; he admired her fine talent. He spent a fortune on her genius. But he wanted more in return than she could give. Hank Hampton thought he could own anything.
If it wasn’t for sale then he’d just take it anyway.
But Angie hadn’t been for sale.
And Jamie was appalled that Hank thought he could win somebody like Angie with money and status.
Some people don’t have a price tag and Angie was one of them. Which was what attracted Joe Folly to her.
Theirs was a fire that Paul thought he’d never get to feel in his lifetime. It was like an inferno of pure respect and trust, and all the goddamn things Paul had sold off years ago.
He could taste it but never attain it.
For Jamie there was no going back. There was no choosing between his sister and his bosses. Since then he’d become insufferable. Noble suddenly. The seller of dreams. The purveyor of honour.
He heard a noise on the other side of the door and looked up briefly before stuffing the rest of his things into his bags.
They were leaving to go to the huge pile in the country, to lie low and recover from the shock.
Paul was resigned to the fact that he might never make it out again.
But it wasn’t as bad as what had happened to Jamie.
He at least hoped that if he succumbed to the toxic side effects of Neurohydroxy-14, then he’d slip away in a drug-induced coma.
It must be better than slamming into a hard floor at breakneck speed.
He’d never forget the sound of Jamie’s bones breaking and the colour of his blood seeping out of his body as he lay broken and destroyed.
The poor bastard.
He didn’t know how Angie had died and he didn’t want to. But he knew they were framing him for it, why else would his boots disappear and end up at a crime scene? Unless…
Paul stopped packing for a minute and thought about his best friend. They’d shared everything. Except shoes, he thought affectionately. He still hadn’t found the damn CAT boots.
Starting out in London, with nothing but an idea to make the health industry more about proper fitness, they’d shared a flat in Shoreditch.
Then they rented an office and took turns on the one computer they owned.
Their phone line was manned in shifts. Their stationery was thieved from the library.
They shopped in food banks supposed to be for those struggling to make ends meet.
But they were both consummate storytellers and so the women on the door let them in.
They went dressed in jeans and baggy jumpers, telling anyone who’d listen how they were brothers whose parents had died, and they’d been made redundant and were both struggling to find work. Hustlers even then.
It got to the point where they used to go just to tell new stories. Their audience was a captive one and they took more and more food each time. They studied the women who volunteered in the tiny shed in Queensbridge Road, and practised their fiction on them.
They eventually shared some of them in bed too.
It was a thesis in mind control. A psy-ops campaign in social engineering.
They moved on when they got bored. London was never short of charities and do-gooders desperate to make connection. That was where they learnt how to sell. And how to profit from others. But when somebody wins, somebody always loses.
This time it had been Jamie.
There was a light tapping on the door and Paul froze.
Then he heard it again.
He went to it and peered through the spyhole and saw that it was Tilda.
He opened it and let her in and she strode into the centre of the room.
‘Ready?’ she asked him.
He nodded. ‘Nearly.’
‘Get a move on, Christ we’ve been here long enough.’
She stared at him, and he got the impression that she wasn’t here to jump into bed with him. She had her game face on. He finished packing and looked around the room, noticing his charger was still plugged into the wall.
‘Did the police search your room?’ she asked.
‘No, why? Should they have done? I thought you said they had no right to enter anyone’s room,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘You can stop panicking. I never had you down as somebody who lost his nerve.’
‘I’m distracted, that’s all. I don’t know what the future looks like without him,’ he said.
‘Don’t concern yourself with things like that,’ she said, softer now. Her voice made him wary. Tilda spread her affections thinly and this level of attention made him cautious.
Paul eyed her suspiciously. She thought she was in control of them both the whole time, over everything. Like a master puppeteer. But she wasn’t.
She grew serious again and looked cross. ‘Was it really necessary to tell the police that I’m shagging you?’
‘You’re shagging me? Am I not shagging you?’
‘Paul, stop being an arse; you know what I mean.’
‘Not really. Words are important. You’re implying that you’re in charge, as always, Tilda.’
‘Stop psychoanalysing me, for God’s sake!’
‘She worked it out! What can I say? She’s smart. Maybe here wasn’t the best place to wash dirty laundry,’ he said, smirking.
She scowled at him.
‘OK. You win. I’m ready. When are we leaving?’
‘The car is here.’
Paul wiped his brow.
‘Calm down, Paul. Didn’t I tell you I’d protect you? We must find out who did this and then we can go home.’
Her words didn’t make sense. Paul was sure they knew already who did it.
‘But Sandy told me…’
‘Never mind what Sandy told you. She twists things to get what she wants; Christ, we all do that, don’t we? You must stop believing people just because they make promises.’
She went to him and stroked his temple, just the way he liked it when the red mist descended in his head.
‘I don’t want to drink it anymore. I’ve had enough. I’m tired, I get blackouts…’
‘Oh, Paul, you’re in good hands. You’re the strongest of all of us.
We’ve learnt so much from you and you will be rewarded like we said.
It’ll all be over soon. You shouldn’t believe Sandy; she’s lost her youth, and she resents the company’s new direction.
She’s worn out. Tired of it all. She’ll be retired soon. We’re getting rid of old wood.’
Paul stared at her and she glanced at the bottle by his bed.
‘How many is that now?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Three or four bottles a day over two weeks.’
She smiled. ‘And no side effects!’
‘I just told you…’
It was as if she was ignoring him on purpose, but then he questioned if he’d told her anything at all; perhaps he’d dreamt it. His head felt thick, and he knew he needed to get off it. He stared at her and his eyes felt heavy, then he felt an overwhelming rage throttle him from the inside.
‘Paul…’ she said. She held her hands up and he stepped towards her. She slapped him across the face, and he stopped, then questioned what he was doing so close to her and her face looking as though he’d hurt her.
He stopped and held his hands up to his face, which was burning up.
‘I need to get off this shit, Tilda, it’s killing me.’
‘Don’t be dramatic, Paul; have you been drinking with it again?’
‘No… I never drink with it; I don’t drink booze anymore, I swear…’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell them.’
She patted his hand and then held him in her arms, and he allowed her to keep him there. Suddenly everything felt normal again and the welling up of destructive energy inside him subsided.
Paul thought her voice was funny. It was as if she was accusing him of something. Jamie warned him about this. But he wasn’t guilty. He hadn’t done anything. She was making him think he had.
And whatever was in the drink.