Chapter Twenty One #3
London—that he’s hunting you, stalking you. That's why he took the
part in this film. So he could get you away, far away.”
Sasha stopped her with a gesture. The words
Stefan and
prison and
London were exploding in
his head, firecrackers trailing toxic smoke, but still his first
impulse was to laugh. Clara was a sweetheart. She was brilliant,
but her forte was the dance, and sometimes she got more everyday
things hopelessly mixed up. “That's not possible.”
“Maybe. He seemed sure, but—”
“Not that.” Two years of life with Laurie swept through Sasha's
mind. Right up until the day he'd ditched Romeo in favour of Devlin
Steele, and come home feverish to tell Sasha so, every moment of
that time was lit up and lucid with the trust they’d placed in one
another. “Something like that—he’d have told me.”
“Yes, except last time you ran away from him.”
“What?”
“Last time Stefan and his men were chasing you. You left him
all alone. You did it to take the danger away from him, but don’t
you see that it half killed him? He’d have faced anything at your
side rather than be left behind like that. And now he’s afraid that
you’ll do it again.”
Sasha
took a step away from her. There was a low table by the door: he
sank down onto that, dislodging some mail and a pot plant.
Absurdities tore at him. He was sitting in a million-dollar house
in Western Hollywood—Laurie was lost in the Mojave, getting drunk
and stoned and sucked off by a stranger—because of Stefan Petrica?
“No,” he whispered, retrieving the plant. He tucked it back into
its little pot, tugging off a broken leaf. Weeks’ worth of
strangeness, a kind of fog that had entered his home and drifted
there, began to condense and break up. No sunlight came
through—just a cold neon glare of the truth. Because Laurie had
been right. If Stefan was loose in London, that was exactly what
Sasha would have done. Locked Laurie in a padded leaden box
somewhere—found reason to pack him off alone to Aunt Elise in
France—and he’d have run. “Poor John Kucharski.”
“I know. He was so kind to me.”
“Yes. To me too. Clara, Laurie shouldn’t have told you this.
You shouldn’t have had to carry it around.”
“I don’t mind. He’s my brother, and I...” She padded over to
him, knelt at his feet. “I only mind if it hasn’t made a difference
to you—knowing why he did all this. I don’t mean the thing on the
video, except that keeping all these secrets...”
“Must have been driving him crazy. Yes.”
“Yes. Tell me it’s made a difference, Sash. Please.”
He took
her hand. It was cold with fear. “Yes. Of course it
has.”
“Then you’ll stay, won’t you? Despite what he’s done—you won’t
rush off into the night? At least you’re safe here. The dragon had
to show our passports at your gate. We practically had to give them
DNA before they’d let us in.”
“Your dragon says my security sucks.”
“At least it’s there. Sasha, I mean it. Don’t make me have
blown Laurie out of the water for nothing.”
“You haven't.” Sasha saw the shadows closing round her. He had
to clear her, chase them away. He remembered the wedding now, her
abrupt departure, and he wondered what on earth had possessed
Laurie. “Why did he tell you this, when he couldn't even tell
me?”
“Oh, I was being precocious.”
Sasha
flickered her a smile. “I can't imagine that, Clara.”
“You know how I can be. Terribly adult, talking to him about
relationships and careers. He usually sees through me, but I had
him fooled him that time. He must have thought he could
confide.”
“He shouldn't have. You do know that, don't you? No grown-up
should lay down his fears on a child.”
“I do know. Normally he never would have. Something was wrong
with him even back them—something more than being scared about
Stefan, I mean.” She patted his knees, a short, nervous tattoo.
“But it did some good, didn't it? Because I can tell you now. And
it's made a difference. You're going to stay here.”
It was
the only way to send her back into the sun. “Yes,” he said firmly,
settling a mask to match his tone. “I'm so glad you came. You did
exactly the right thing, and it must have been so hard for
you.”
“Really? You won't run?”
“There's no need, is there?” He managed a faint chuckle. “I
love your brother...” Yes, always, still,
the only true words left to me, and even if they weren't I'd say
them, to see the relief in her eyes. “I
love Laurie, but he really overdid it, didn't he? Stefan was never
gonna find me here.”
“Oh, thank God.” She looked over her shoulder. Dracinsky had
finished sweeping up. She was standing as discreetly as she could
among the shadows, but plainly time was up. “Because the thing
is... I rather ran away from Seattle. I might get away with missing
my practice hours today, but not a whole performance.”
“You have to go. You're still young Jane Eyre, aren't
you?”
“I'll be the old one by the time this damn run
ends.”
He
helped her up. Or maybe she helped him—there was little in it now
in terms of strength. They looked at one another, and Sasha
understood—almost forgave—Laurie's impulse to bare his soul. Sasha
folded up his own soul small so it couldn't escape, kissed her
gently on the delicate Fitzroy cheekbone that lent her brother's
face such charm. “Go on. Everything will be okay.”
“You promise?”
That was
tough. Sasha's standards for a vow were Romani ones, deep and
bright as blood. But the terms were vague, he supposed, and at some
time in a future he could no longer envisage, maybe they would be
true. Everything would be okay for this girl, and for anyone else
still left standing.
For
Laurie. Sasha would do whatever was needful to ensure that. “Yes,
love,” he said, handing Clara back to her dragon, who met his eyes
for one unfathomable moment. “I promise.”
***
Just
before noon, Sasha took a last look at the house, the pool and the
hopeless security team. The driver of the blue Ford, clearly having
given up on subtlety, was sitting on the bonnet having a cigarette.
Poor Laurie had erected such a frail fence. Sasha could have taught
him how to choose men who wouldn't be seen. Still, it was the
tragedy of Sasha's life to know, and the privilege of Laurie's to
be clueless in such matters. Sasha would defend to the death his
right to stay that way.
Even
this lot would notice the arrival of a yellow cab outside the front
door. Sasha surveyed Laurie's realm, the sanctuary punctured
through with holes. From here on the wall he could see all of
them—intrusions or escape routes, all depending on your point of
view. The jacaranda tree was giving off its most intoxicating
noonday fragrance. From complex motives, Sasha picked a blossom and
tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. These were just his
everyday Levis, not the patched street pair from the cache at the
back of the linen cupboard. He was wearing an ordinary jacket. The
parka had become a symbol, more than the sum of its parts, but now
that the moment had come, any such disguise would make him more
conspicuous, not less. It had served in a poor man's cold winter.
Now he had to move through wealth and summer heat.
It was
easy enough once he began. The drop into the neighbour's garden was
a long one but he landed lightly. Mateo had taught him well, and he
soon saw the gap in the next fence, the place where he could
scramble up onto the garage roof. It helped that he had both hands
free and nothing to carry. Leaving his nice satchel behind had torn
at him, but all he'd ever carried in there were his laptop and his
papers. The laptop was bagged up in pieces in the bin, the
documents relating to Colin Pearson and Yosiri Cuza sealed into an
envelope on the kitchen table, with a note asking Laurie please to
have them delivered by secure courier mail into the hands of the
Guidance Council’s CEO in London—not his assistant, and certainly
not Sasha's ex-boss Alan Briggs. The note also explained why
Sasha's mobile phone was sitting on top of it, serving one last
purpose as a paperweight. It said some other things too.
Other
than his passport and his wallet, what did Sasha need? There was a
king's ransom behind his credit card, although he planned to use
cash and cut off his paper trail as quickly as he could. He vaulted
from the garage to the top of the next wall, balanced and jumped
down again. It was easy. In a world where his heart and his guts
didn't feel like burning lead, it would be fun. Three more leaps
and scrambles and he emerged into the lane that ran behind the
villa gardens, a long narrow alley that would take him to the gap
in the San Marco perimeter where the builders had failed or chosen
not to finish off a gate.
Mateo
was there. He was poised at the end of the alley as if waiting.
Sasha had forgotten their appointment—had forgotten almost
everything in the light of Clara's revelations—but the timing was
about right.
If Sasha
stopped, he was lost. He waited, hoping Mateo would understand this
and give him a sign. They were within shouting distance, but this
wasn't the kind of thing you could shout about. Mateo stood and
watched him for a moment, then reached into the inside pocket of
his smart interview jacket. Sasha recognised the papers he pulled
out—the logo on them at least, and the colours of the forms. Mateo
grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
That was
it—he had done what he needed to, started a process at least
whereby Mateo could now help himself. He began to turn, but a
poignant shift of the boy's expression stopped him.
Mateo held out both arms. The movement was absurd but clear: a
little kid's signal for an aeroplane. His eyes backed up the
message with all an adult's gift for pain. Are you flying away from me now?
Sasha nodded. He mirrored the gesture, holding his arms out
briefly in return, and then waved. Yes, an
aeroplane. Goodbye.