She flopped down beside him and he lit the joint. He drew heavily on it, feeling it fill his lungs, and then held it out. ‘You want to try it? It’s home grown, pretty good.’
She curled her tongue over her lips, and then nodded. He instructed her to draw in the smoke, to suck it in on a breath so she would ‘feel the benefits’. She held on to the thick joint, and gulped, coughed and wafted her hand... then she tried again.
‘You feeling the benefits?’
She cocked her head to one side. ‘Not sure what they are, but it tastes foul.’
He encouraged her to continue smoking, then took the joint back.
‘Holy shit, my head’s exploding, is that the benefit? It’s like being drunk... Whooo, lemme have some more, it’s great.’
Skye passed the J back to her and lay back, he was feeling nicely stoned...
‘You want some music...? Harry? Shall I put some music on?’
She didn’t answer so he got up and walked into the house. He chose one of his favourites, Berlioz. She saw the way his strange eyes closed as he listened to the music. His face with his eyes shut had no brilliance, was ravaged, gaunt. His flowing caftan gave him a sexuality that was both male and female. He hadn’t heard her enter, and his eyes opened. She listened to the music for a moment.
‘Ahhh, the Symphonie Fantastique.’
‘You like classical music?’
‘Mmmmm.’
She was wrapped in a white bath towel, and he thought she was the most perfect creature he had ever seen. Her thick red hair still damp from her swim clung to her head forming tiny curls. She sat cross-legged in the centre of the room. ‘You know I think I am feeling the benefits, sort of woozy... but nice, Edward will be furious.’
‘Don’t talk about him.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I just don’t want you to talk about him, I want you to talk about yourself...’ He lay on the sofa staring at her, leaning his head on his elbow. ‘I’ve waited for you, did you know that?... I wanted to get you stoned, then I wanted to take you to bed.’
He saw her blush, her cheeks went rosy red, and she plucked at the carpet. He stretched out his body, at the same time rubbing his hand down his thigh, his fingers tracing himself, and she could see his erection.
‘Don’t you like him?’
‘Who?’
‘You know who, Edward.’
‘Ahhhhh, Eddie, sure I like him. If you want the truth I more than like him, we go back a long time. I met him in a whorehouse, a black whorehouse. You want a drink?’
‘Does he still go there?’
‘Sure, he takes whatever I deliver, he’s a great stud, a stallion, but you know that... you do know that, don’t you, Mrs Barkley?’
He moved past her, so close his gown touched her. He slowly unscrewed the bottle of vodka and drank it neat. He swayed around her like a cat, a cat playing with his catch. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Her hair hid her eyes, and he crouched down offering the bottle. Suddenly, she tossed her head back, and stared at him, then she reached over and touched his face.
‘Oh, Mr Duval, you are a dangerous man, with a beautiful face, and a very disarming manner, but you’re just an alley cat, a seedy alley cat with vicious sharp claws.’
He pulled her to him and kissed her, forcing her mouth open, his tongue searching her mouth. An open, wet, frantic kiss, as he pulled the towel away from her and pushed her backward until he lay on top of her, his hands grasping her wrists. She made no effort to fight him off. She showed no fear of him. He was at a loss... the hunter had netted himself. She pushed him away from her and he flopped back on the carpet.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Christ,’ he thought, ‘not the bedroom now,’ he couldn’t get it up if she were Ben Hur.
‘To the whorehouse. I want to see what goes on when I’m not around.’
Edward was exhausted, it had been a long, hard day. The mining rights for three of his perlite investments were causing problems. Added to that two hospital complexes were behind schedule and a high-rise apartment block built in shifting ground. This meant his men had bought land cutting corners on the surveys, but they had charged him the full rate. The men had to be sifted out and dealt with.
He walked into the hotel and took the elevator up to their suite. He wanted a hot bath and food, his shirt was sticking to his back. He dropped his briefcase on to the bed, pulled his shirt off and threw it aside. ‘Harry? You on the balcony?’ Getting no answer he looked at his watch, it was after eight. He crossed to the phone to ring down to the main dining room and saw her note. He angrily placed a call through to Skye. No reply. He ordered room service, and then took a shower.
He rang Skye three more times during the evening. His anger turned to genuine worry when at eleven o’clock she still had not returned... at twelve o’clock he was driving around the streets looking for Skye Duval’s car. He stopped at a phone booth and called Skye yet again, and still could get no reply. He called the hotel, and Mrs Barkley had not returned... he sat in icy fury in the car and banged the steering wheel. Where would that bastard take her at this hour?
Skye was exhausted, he sat slumped on a bar stool. Harriet was sitting between four blacks and a hooker known as Tricks, because she never missed one. Harriet was holding forth about black rights, and Skye couldn’t believe it. One drive through the black shanty towns and she was an authority on what had to be done. They all listened avidly, because she also ordered drinks every two minutes for anyone who cared to join her group.
Skye had tried to take her out, but one of her new friends had pushed him aside... pushed him a little too roughly. They were in the black area, and not wanting trouble he went back to the bar.
Skye became more and more wary as the evening went on. He knew he would have Edward to deal with, never mind getting his wife out. He didn’t know who he would be more scared of — Edward or the blacks that surrounded him... or were surrounding Harriet.
Encouraged by her friendliness, they were openly touching her, accepting her free drinks. White women didn’t come in their area. Shifty looks passed between dark eyes, her gold necklace, her diamond ring, even better was the thick wad of notes they saw in her wallet... any moment now they would make their move and take her outside — and Skye knew he could do nothing to stop them.
Edward Barkley entered the dark, seedy bar. Everybody fell silent as the tension built. Harriet waved across to him and then turned to the men. ‘It’s all right, he’s my husband... Edward, I want you to meet some friends of mine.’
He walked straight through the lot of them and took her elbow. ‘Time we went home, you got your bag?’
He turned to Skye, his face was a mask; he gave Skye a small nod of recognition. The men formed a circle, surrounding Harriet and Edward... a tight silent group. Still holding her with one hand, he took from his inside jacket pocket a wad of notes, he tossed them to the bar... he looked to each man. They moved aside, and the couple walked out of the club. Edward opened the car door and slammed it shut so hard the car rocked. Before starting the engine he leaned over, flipped the glove compartment open and replaced the gun.
She didn’t know what she was more afraid of, the change in her so-called friends, or the violent cold anger from her husband. His hands clenched the wheel as he drove back to their hotel. She could see a muscle twitching in the side of his face...
‘I’m sorry, I should have let you know where I was.’
He gave her a look that frightened her.
They went up in the elevator in silence. He unlocked their hotel room, jerked his head for her to go in before him and she moved quickly to the bed. He didn’t switch the light on, but stood in the dark. His voice was unrecognizable, ‘You have a good time, white trash?’ She had never seen him so angry. ‘Well? You going to answer me?’