‘You failed.’
‘I—’
‘You failed,’ she said again, then emptied her glass, refilling Dwappa’s. ‘What are we going to do now?’ she asked, taking another greedy drink, her eyes watching him over the rim of the glass. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come good for years,’ she went on, putting down her glass and picking at the corner of her left eye. ‘Waiting on all your promises. Waiting for the good times. The big time. So many plans and promises you made me. And nothing came of any of them. Such big dreams for such a little runt.’
‘I can—’
‘No,’ she said coldly, ‘that’s the point, you can’t. You never could. You aren’t able. You sick fuck. You queer …’
Watching them, Ben waited. They had believed his story, but what were they going to do next? With him? With Abigail? How likely was it that they would let them go after what had happened? But then again, what would be the point of killing two more people for nothing?
In the dim light he watched the couple facing him across the table. A grotesque mother and her murderous son.
‘I’ll go back to see the woman in New York, blackmail her—’
‘Hah! You’ve been outsmarted, like always. Whatever you try won’t come good. People are too clever for you.’ She swigged back another drink, the flesh slack under her chin. ‘You’re no use to me, Emile. No use to me. You disappointed me. I gave you so many chances, but you never came good.’ To Ben’s surprise, her voice was changing, taking on an odd crooning tone. ‘But what does it matter now? It’s over. All over.’
A long malicious moment hung between them, Dwappa watching his mother then suddenly beginning to choke, his hands going to his throat, clutching for air.
Slowly Mama Gala leaned towards her son, stroking his face. ‘No, just relax. Just be calm, be calm,’ she told him, Dwappa’s eyes wide, then suddenly drooping. From one moment of bulging terror they had changed into a flat incredulity, his face slackening as he slumped in his seat.
Stunned, Ben watched her. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
She turned her great head, the thick neck wrinkling. ‘What I should have done a long time ago.’
‘You can’t kill your own son.’
‘I’m not going to,’ she replied, loosening Dwappa’s collar and placing his slack hands on his thighs.
‘Is he poisoned?’
She shrugged, as though the matter was of no interest.
‘Have you poisoned him?’
‘Get out!’ she said simply. ‘Go on, get out!’
Shaken, Ben rose to his feet. He could see Dwappa’s eyes following him, imploring him, as he backed away.
‘But he’s your son—’
‘He killed your brother!’ she snapped. ‘You want him to get away with that? Where are your fucking balls? Why don’t you want him dead? I bred him and I can do what I want with him. He’ll just be one more animal to keep. Mute, helpless, needing me.’ She smiled like a devil, making a kissing sound with her lips as she looked at her son. ‘I can keep him with me forever now. You think I don’t know what he really wanted? To leave me. To make money and get away from me. Now he’ll never leave me.’
She rolled her massive head, loosening her neck muscles as Dwappa stared at her, knowing she had won. Knowing he was locked in, at her mercy, facing interminable imprisonment. Trapped in a useless body, when every day would hold fresh torture. He would beg for death, would long for the end. And Mama Gala would make sure it didn’t come quickly.
It was a fitting punishment.
Rising to his feet, Ben moved to the door quickly. He was waiting to be stopped, for Mama Gala to get out of her chair and come after him, for someone – anyone – to prevent him from leaving that terrible room.
‘Wait!’
He stopped, turning back to her.
‘Remember what I tell you,’ she said, her expression lethal. ‘Breathe a word of this and you’ll regret it. I know you. I know her. I can – I will – find you anywhere.’ She jerked her head upstairs, to where Abigail was being held. ‘I know how to make people suffer. I know deeper and darker then you can imagine. I know tricks to make men mad.’ She was talking without emotion, a blank mask of hatred. ‘I know a hell within hells. I’ve been there, and I’ll take you with me if you speak a word about this.’
In silent agreement, Ben nodded. Then, taking one last look at his brother’s killer, he ran upstairs.
70
Still unconscious and scarcely breathing, Abigail didn’t move as Ben drove her back to his house. Although he knew he was taking a chance, he decided that it was too risky to return her to the Whitechapel Hospital. After settling her into bed, he then made a few hurried phone calls and a nurse arrived soon after with the dressings and medication he had requested.
Gently he removed the soiled bandage from around Abigail’s head. Wincing as he saw the onset of infection, he bathed the operation site and gave her an antibiotic injection. Abigail never stirred, never woke. He checked her pulse, noting that it was really sluggish, and sat down beside the bed.
Five minutes later he checked her pulse again, but there was no change. He leaned towards her, stroking her face, talking to her.
‘Darling, wake up. It’s me, Ben. Wake up, sweetheart.’
She shifted in her sleep, sweating, breathing rapidly. Her eyes were puffy from water retention, her hair damp with sweat. Tenderly, he combed it away from her face, sticky tendrils smearing the pillow. Her beauty, marred and scarred, was an ache in his heart.
‘Abi, you’re safe now.’
Still she didn’t wake.
‘You’re home. With me. You’re safe, baby.’
Taking off his shoes, Ben lay down on the bed beside her, holding her to him, her head against his chest. Every breath she took echoed inside his own chest, every flutter of her pulse mirrored his own. He held her and watched the ceiling above them. He watched the darkness deepen, then lift with the first slow-building nudge of dawn, morning coming sleepy on the new day. Once or twice in the early hours he heard an alarm go off, but nothing woke her. Exhausted, he thought he might sleep but remained wakeful, listening, hoping for the first signs that she was going to come round.
He didn’t know what toxic substance she had been given, just as he knew the hospital wouldn’t be able to help her any more than he could. All he could do was to wait for her. Talk to her, comfort her. Make her hear him.
And come back.
71
Watching from outside Ben’s house, Duncan rang the police station. Roma came on to the line immediately.
‘Have you found him?’
‘Ben Golding’s back home,’ Duncan replied. ‘And I think he brought Abigail Harrop back with him.’
‘You think?’
‘He was carrying a woman. I suppose it was her,’ Duncan replied. ‘You want me to find out?’
‘No, stay there. I’m on my way.’
When he heard the doorbell ring, Ben was tempted to ignore it. But when it kept on ringing he left Abigail and walked downstairs. Through the spyhole he could see Roma Jaffe, and waited a moment longer before opening the door.
Her expression was one of pure annoyance. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course,’ Ben replied, stepping back for her to enter. ‘I was just going to ring you—’
‘I’m sure you were.’
‘I’ve got Abigail back.’ He paused, handling his words like rare china, terrified they might chip and shatter even as he said them.
‘Got her back?’ Roma queried, following Ben as he moved into the sitting room. Refusing a seat, she glanced around. ‘Can I see her?’
‘She’s asleep.’
‘But she’s OK?’
He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I think she’s going to be OK … I did try to ring you—’
‘Who had her?’
‘The person who wanted the Goya skull—’
‘The skull that’s in the Feldenchrist Museum, New York?’