Her Nightly Embrace Page 16

  I walked, headed for the stairs.

  “Hey, Ravi. I’ll see you tomorrow, right? Right?”

  TWELVE

  Marcie’s PR magic did what she said it would do on the tin. Stories began popping up in the papers, first about Samir Langhani’s exploits as a playboy dickhead all over London with cocaine and prostitutes, then about his father’s arms dealing and the various investigations on him, and finally about Samir’s mysterious disappearance from his hotel, skipping out on the bill, though they still had his credit card, so they charged him anyway. Then the stories started speculating that he might have been grabbed by the CIA. None of these stories would be running without the CIA’s approval.

  Julia was witness to Shazia and Adelaide’s wedding in Amsterdam. Mark and Roger decided to finally tell the Ibrahims where Shazia was, omitting the details about everything else we had done, of course. I sat in to reassure them. We didn’t tell them she was gay, only that she had already gotten married. Suffice to say, there was now no wedding to be had with any member of the Langhani family, who were going to be busy elsewhere for a long time. It was safe for Shazia to come back to the UK. She and Adelaide could live how they wanted now, with all the yuri manga and anime they could want.

  The gods were taking a break, having spent the last few days putting on that performance from The Mahabharata for my benefit.

  As far as everyone at the office was concerned, all was well that ended well. David was pleased we weren’t going to be sued. Roger gave both Mark and me bonuses just because he was in a good mood.

  There was just one more thing I had to do. I waited till we had clocked off and gone back to my flat before I told Julia we had to break up and, for her own safety, she had to quit working for the agency.

  “Ravi,” Julia said carefully. “You’re actually freaking out right now. You’re great at hiding it, but nothing you’re saying makes any sense. We should talk about this when you’re calmer.”

  “I am calm right now. I am also utterly rational.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Julia, I’m not negotiating or discussing here. I’m telling you what we have to do now. It was never a good idea to start with.”

  “We’ve been over that. What’s changed?”

  I told her about Marcie being CIA, about us being used to set up Samir Langhani getting grabbed and used as leverage against his father.

  “And you’re using that as an excuse to break up? We can get through this.”

  “There’s no ‘we’ here. It’s me she’s trapped in her fucking web. Me and everyone in the firm. I thought Roger was the boss, but she’s his handler. She can give him an order, and he’ll happily do it because he’ll get handsomely paid along with brownie points for it. She considers me an asset.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “As long as she’s happy with me. She could send me to Guantánamo with one phone call!”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “This is a real possibility!”

  “So quit. I’ll go with you.”

  “It won’t matter if I quit. Marcie will still want to use me as an asset. She’s taught me too much about tradecraft. She won’t let her investment go.”

  “So you want to go through this alone?”

  “Julia, this isn’t some personal crisis with a bill or a problem client or a bump in our relationship. Our relationship is not the issue here.”

  “Really. That’s the opposite impression you’ve been giving me for months.”

  “I’m telling you it’s not safe to be with me.”

  “Well, that’s my choice.”

  “No it’s not. It takes the two of us, and I’m shutting this down now.”

  “Listen to yourself. You act as if this was a car you’re getting rid of at a scrapyard.”

  “Julia, it’s not because I don’t want it. I do, but I can’t have you in harm’s way because of me.”

  “Did the gods tell you to break up with me? Is that it?”

  “The gods don’t tell me to do anything. And it’s bad enough the gods talk to me. I don’t know what they’re leading me into. This is several layers of unpredictable shit I’m in! You can still get away from it all!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not some princess you need to protect. You’re not being noble here. You’re just fucking scared!”

  We got less and less calm the longer the night went on. Tears came. I had to put my foot down. I had to. I wasn’t going to make excuses or lie. I wasn’t going to say “It’s not you, it’s me.” Actually, it was me. I was a potential death trap. I wasn’t going to change my mind no matter how much she tried to talk me out of it. Julia had her pride. She wasn’t going to beg, and I begged her not to. She clung on to me and I didn’t want to let go of her, but in the end, that was how it had to be.

  The rest of the night was a blur, but I still remember our tears and her pride, and my stupidity.

  I just wasn’t that brave.

  ONE

  Over three months and Julia had kept her word in not getting in touch. After an initial text from her asking if I was all right, there was silence. I texted her back to check that she was still going to therapy, then told her we should stop texting. I hoped she hadn’t fallen off the wagon and gone on a tear fucking someone really horrible and catching a disease.

  I’d stopped taking my pills. Fuck it. Call it an act of self-destruction or defiance. The gods were popping up all the time, more than ever, always in the corner of my eye, vying for my attention by just being there. I ignored them. I was still functioning. I wasn’t psychotic, and they didn’t demand my attention. My dad was still recovering after his surgery, but the days were rough for him. I was tempted to just curl up in bed in my flat and stay there forever, but then the gods would just pop up and stand around my bedroom all day, silently watching, silently judging, no fun at all. They weren’t letting me wallow in my depression and self-pity. No, I had to go to work, be functional.

  I suppose the job had settled into a groove for me. Just as well, since it helped take my mind off Julia. How much I missed her. The regret that gnawed away at me whenever I had a quiet moment.

  Heartbreak sucks. It doesn’t get any easier when you get older, doesn’t get any less intense from when I was in my twenties, the hormonal misfires and dopamine level drops in the brain no better whether I was a spotty teen or a thirtysomething, like I was now. I reminded myself that there were bigger things out there than my heart that I made the choice to break, that there were things in the cosmos and the ether that swirled and whirled whether I had a breakup or not. The forces of karma and chaos carried on in spite of me even as I added to them. It would just be silly to go off the deep end and go on a bender or get into a fight in a pub or take drugs to dull the pain; there were still clients who needed me to solve their problems. At least there was still the adrenaline high of the job, I tried to convince myself.

  So here I was, meeting a perp in a parking complex in Willesden on a gray afternoon, Bluetooth earpiece in so I could stay in touch with Benjamin and Olivia. I was even using “perp” because Marcie kept saying it like she was in a US cop show. The client was hers. Again. I still rolled my eyes at this cloak-and-dagger bollocks, the perp trying to be clever, insisting on meeting here so I could hand over the ransom to get back the heirloom he had stolen from my client.

  I followed the thief’s demands, drove the BMW to the top of a parking complex in Willesden to wait for him. I assumed he’d scoped out the place beforehand. Open-air roof, not many cars or people about in the afternoon. Frankly, it was a crap place for a meeting or exchange, too many ways to get trapped. Signs of someone trying to be clever who’s really not.

  The door to the stairwell opened and out he walked.

  “You got da money?”

  Bomber jacket, trainers, nervous eyes. He should have driven his car.

  “Keep him talking,” Olivia said on the Bluetooth. “Almost there.”

  �
�You don’t have it on you,” I said. “Why would I give you the money now?”

  “I’ll text you where it is.”

  “That’s a crap exchange. Not buying it.”

  “You don’t have over the dosh, I’m walking out of here,” he insisted.

  “I’m starting to see why he sacked you.”

  “Do what?”

  “We looked you up, Will. Will Mosby. Some advice. When you rip off your boss, don’t brag about it on Facebook. All we did was Google you.”

  He shuffled, eyes darting, trying to stay in control. I wondered if he might pull a knife on me.

  “Just between us, I don’t think that thing is worth 1.2 million, but you can’t account for taste—”

  “So fucking what? You’re not getting it back unless I get da money!”

  “You’re not encouraging a lot of trust here, Will. You’re already changing the terms.”

  “Stop fucking around! Just hand over the fucking money!”

  “No.”

  “Fucking what?”

  I was done playing. Olivia and Benjamin had been tracking the heirloom via its RFID chip and found a rusty old Golf GTI. The inside was a toxic dump, full of half-eaten food, McDonald’s cartons, old trainers, porno mags, and shopping bags.

  “Sure you don’t want to join me in here?” Benjamin said, at which point Olivia told him in the poshest tone possible to fuck right off.

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Benjamin said.

  “I try anything once except incest, Morris dancing, and wading in rubbish with you.”

  “That’s not the attitude you have in bed.”

  “Keep talking, darling,” snarled Olivia. “And we will stop shagging altogether. You can go back to Japanese porn. We both know that’s bloody boring compared to me.”

  Too much information . . .

  “Huzzah!” cried Benjamin.

  He’d found the heirloom in a Sainsbury bag.

  “GPS. Sorry, Will. You’re out of cards to play.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. Instead, he ran for the door to the stairs.

  Except the door swung open as he reached it, knocked him on his arse.

  Ken and Clive came out the door. When Will texted me this location half an hour before the meet, we were able to look it up and suss the layout of the whole complex, including the corner under the stairs for Ken and Clive to stand in wait for him to show up, and time when to pop out.

  “Fuck! Oh Fuck! Please don’t kill me!”

  “What? No, we don’t kill people.”

  At least I didn’t, anyway. Ken and Clive had that gleam in their eyes as they dragged him to his feet.

  “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

  He made to leave, but Clive kept his grip on his neck.

  “We’re still gonna have words,” Ken said.

  “Words your mum should have had with you about nicking things,” Clive said.

  “What are you going to do to him?” I asked.

  “Don’t you worry, mate. Go pick up the heirloom,” said Ken.

  “This toerag actually grassed himself up,” Clive said. “Stupid really does find new ways to be stupid.”

  They were dragging Will towards the balcony, and I saw horns spouting from their foreheads and their eyes take on a yellowish hue. I pictured them dangling him over the edge and him screaming in terror. Yama was standing over them, not in a good mood, ready to pass judgment on poor Will.

  “Let him go,” I said.

  This seemed to snap Ken and Clive out of it, and they looked at me, surprised.

  “It’s a lover’s tiff. Client hired him as an assistant, had an affair with him, then dumped him. He stole something of value to get back at him.”

  “How did you—?”

  “I could read it on your face, Will.”

  I turned to Ken and Clive.

  “Look, what’s the point putting him in hospital? It’s over. He’s lost. He’s already shitting himself.”

  They looked at Will like panthers contemplating lunch. Karma was not a concern for them, considering they tipped theirs into the ground a long time ago. Finally, they made a decision, dropped him to the ground before me.

  “Go on. Piss off.”

  Will scarpered.

  For once, Ken and Clive chose not to fuck someone up. Progress, I suppose.

  As we watched Will leg it out of there, Clive just had to put the boot in.

  “Just ’cause you’re heartbroken doesn’t mean you have to rescue every twat who’s been dumped, Ravi.”

  TWO

  I picked up the heirloom from Benjamin and Olivia.

  In case you were wondering, it was the fucking ugliest clown figurine I’d ever seen, the type of kitschy porcelain clown that made me think of serial killers. You might think it was worth a couple of quid in some souvenir shop in Blackpool or something, but it was made by Jeff Koons, so it was worth 1.2 million quid at a Sotheby’s auction, which was where the client had bought it. Marcie had read all about it years ago in Artforum and briefed me on it.

  “Life’s just one big cosmic joke, innit?” Benjamin said.

  Somehow, even that didn’t improve my mood.

  I set the figurine in the seat next to me. God, it was ugly. Cosmic joke, indeed. I glimpsed Lord Vishnu in the backseat via the rearview mirror. He was busy with his phone, tweeting away, probably about me again. That bloody hashtag again.

  #ourownpersonalholyfool

  I drove to the club in Soho where Marcie and I were meeting the client. I’m not naming the client or the club. He’s just not that interesting, and I don’t need to get sued. The club was not one you’d find in Time Out’s Top 10. It was chintzy and garish, the kind of place that a tourist from Essex might think was the height of London glamour, exclusivity for wankers. Of course the client would hang out at this place. It was totally in keeping with his taste in expansive tat like this clown figurine.

  Marcie was sitting at the bar when I walked in, my hand gripping the clown for dear life. It wouldn’t do to lose or drop 1.2 million quid, no matter how repulsive it looked.

  “And there it is.” Marcie smiled. “Never thought I’d actually see this sucker up close.”

  “Don’t tell me you actually like this thing.”

  “Dude, it’s not about liking it. It’s about being near the aura of an object that’s acquired all that meaning. Crazy money. Art. Weird fetishized lust.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Know why the client’s wife hates it?”

  “Other from good taste and common sense?”

  “He uses it as a sex toy.”

  I was suddenly aware that I’d been gripping the clown very tightly for quite a long time.

  “Sex—? The what now—?”

  “He likes to stick it up his ass.”

  Marcie looked at my face and laughed.

  “I don’t think he’d cleaned it when it was stolen.”

  Marcie continued to have a good laugh as she watched me beg the bartender for antibacterial wipes to frantically rub down my hands with, then the clown from top to bottom.

  “This is probably the cleanest it’s been in years,” she said.

  I wish I could be as easily amused by life as she was.

  “He’s here,” Marcie said.

  I quickly dropped the wet wipes behind the bar counter as the client walked in. Fortysomething with a toupee, tan from a sunbed and expensive suit, blandly pleasant air of your innocuous TV presenter. No, I still won’t name him. He kissed Marcie on the cheek. He was her client, after all. His eyes lit up when I handed over the clown figurine, and he thanked us profusely like a mother reunited with her child. In this case it was a man and his dildo. I shouldn’t judge people’s relationships with their objects. This was just a very literal example of being attached to material goods, everything religion says we shouldn’t be tied down by. But rich people really have weird relationships with their objects, the
richer the weirder.

  Marcie and I exchanged a look when he kissed the clown. I was really glad I had wiped it clean now.

  THREE

  You need to get laid,” Marcie said as I drove us back to the office.

  “This again?” I moaned.

  “Seriously, you’re just moping around the office all the time. Everyone’s been walking on eggshells around you.”

  “I’m getting the work done.”

  “But you’re bringing the whole mood down, dude. Ken and Clive, when they get depressed, find a fight to pick, or go in a boxing ring to pummel the shit out of each other. Apparently, the makeup sex is amazing.”

  “Too much information, Marcie.”

  “Olivia does retail therapy and a spa day. Benjamin orders the latest tech. Mark has his weed. What do you have?”

  “I have a full plate. That should be enough.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the CIA thing?”

  “I’m not depressed about that. I’m depressed about breaking up with Julia.”

  “Why did you break up with Julia?”

  “That’s between her and me.”

  “Dude, I don’t want to stick my nose in, but you’ve been on edge since that day. Every now and then you’d look off somewhere like you’re seeing a ghost. Everybody’s noticed it. What are you afraid of? You could quit. I would never sell you out. I would never make you do something you don’t want to do.”

  “Without my knowing it.”

  “Come on! We’re not the bad guys here.”

  “We’re not the good guys, either. People hire us to be bad guys for them.”

  “Not all the time. They hire us to solve problems.”

  “And we’re good at that. I know you take pride in that. It’s actually good that you feel guilty about some of it. It means you still have a moral compass. We’re not sociopaths.”