Page 2 of A Dark Fall

I clap my hands together and stand up. “Good. Glad we cleared that up,” I say.

Eddie goes to stand up too, but Kev plants his hands on his shoulders, stopping his ascent.

“I’ll call you later and tell you where you’ll bring Freddie’s cash. And I’m gonna add five grand onto it ’cause we’ve been here”—I check my watch—“forty-five minutes longer than we needed to be, and it’s cut into my personal time.” I stand up and tuck the cheap dining chair back under the table. No point making a mess.

“Come on, Jay. This is fucking bullshit, mate. I don’t have Tony’s money,” Eddie whines.

My head turns sharply to him. “You think I’m your fucking mate?” I look at Kev and laugh. He snickers. “And it’s not Tony’s money, Ed, is it? It’s Fred’s. You vouched for him. This is on you.” I sound reasonable. Too reasonable, because this little shit doesn’t know how close he came to being dead.

Eddie shakes his head and puts his head in his hands. Probably the best place for it.

“Now, we’re going to head off, let you get that flight booked.” I give a nod to Kev who looks as if someone just stole his Lego. He’s not happy unless his knuckles are bruised and an ambulance has been called.

“What’s going on?” a familiar voice says behind me.

I sigh. Sharon, Eddie’s less than monogamous wife. Blonde with a tan as fake as her chest. She’s the kind of woman I can’t seem to get away from no matter how hard I try. As I turn, she looks me up and down, a flicker of something in her eye I don’t particularly like. I say nothing to her and turn back around to her husband.

“Shaz, wait in there, will you?” Eddie says. He’s trying to sound as if he’s got everything under control—which, I think we’ve already established, he hasn’t.

“No. What’s going on, Eddie?” she says, her voice like a fork scraping a patterned plate. High-pitched and sickening. It makes me wonder, though not for the first time, what the fuck I was thinking with her. I could have gone somewhere else—anywhere else.

In my defense, I was out of it. Plus, Eddie’s been screwing a nineteen-year-old lap dancer for the past year and a half, and Sharon looks all right on a good day. I’m having trouble seeing it right now though. But then I always have trouble seeing it after.

“Are you thick? Go into the other fucking room, Sharon,” Eddie snaps. It makes my nostrils flare. Why do guys always talk to their wives like shit? Like they can’t stand the sight of them. I’ve never understood it. Yeah, okay, Sharon isn’t exactly the kind of woman who inspires worship, I get that, but why marry them if you can’t stand them? One night is more than enough to get what you need and walk away with everybody’s pride still intact. Marriage? Fuck that.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I’ve no desire to ever settle down with a woman. It’s just the kind of woman I want to settle down with isn’t hanging around places like the Cartwrights’ kitchen.

Eddie’s exasperated expression when Sharon clicks back into the living room is almost conspiratorial. It says, “Women, eh? What are they like?” Fucking tosser.I feel like telling him I fucked his wife from behind in his bed upstairs—which I did—and that she came screaming my name—which she did—just to see the look drop from his pasty, lying face. But I won’t. Because I don’t tell people my business.

“Okay. Well then, I guess we’re done here. I’ll call you later, Ed. Keep your phone on, yeah?” I say with a nod. “And we’ll meet in a public place, don’t worry. I’ll let you pick where.”

I’m pretty sure Freddie will still put a bullet in Tony once he finds him, but Eddie, if he does what he’s told, might just survive this. He looks about three shades whiter than he did when we came in. Maybe he should go join Tony in the Costa del Sol. A tan would do him the world of good. Fuck, if I thought Tony was actually there, I would volunteer to find him myself. Anything for some peace away from this shit.

But then I remember I can’t fuck off to Spain right now because I really do have a lot on this week.

I give Kev a look to tell him the party’s over, and he lets go of Eddie who stands and shakes off his shoulders immediately. When I walk through to the living room, Sharon is leaning against the fireplace, arms folded, face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. She has the kind of face I imagine used to have men chasing her up and down Bromley High Street ten years ago. She was a dancer, and you can still see it. Tall and slender and blonde. She’s older now, but she still has something.I give her a cursory glance as I pass, and for some reason, she decides it’s enough encouragement to follow me to the front door.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” She looks worried—scared even. That’s because Eddie Cartwright is a wife-beating scumbag who’d put her in hospital if he knew.

I look around at her. “Why the fuck would I do that?” I shake my head as I glance toward the kitchen, wondering why the fuck Kev is still in there.

“Oh, okay,” she says. She fluffs her hair in a way that’s definitely flirtatious. “So ... you wanna do it again sometime then?” The hope in her eyes is painful for me to look at. I rarely “do it again” with anyone. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve done “it” again.

“I don’t think so, babe,” I say. Seriously, where the fuck is he? Kevin really can’t be trusted not to break something. But as I go toward the kitchen again, he comes out shoveling crisps into his mouth from a large red bag. He’s fucking unbelievable.

“You said it was nice,” she mutters under her breath, but loud enough that I’m supposed to hear it. I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Brilliant. As if I needed this right now.

“I’m sure it was,” I say. “Nice” sounds like exactly the kind of thing I would say. I never say I’ll call them, and I never say, “Let’s do this again.” Because my experience with women ensures I never want to. That’s why I steer clear of any sort of relationship shit. I don’t want to be an Eddie. I don’t want a Sharon.

Eddie comes out behind Kevin, alive, and he doesn’t seem to have broken anything either, which is a bonus. Way to go, Kev. I’ll need to buy him a milkshake on the way back.

“Hey, Jay, I know where we could meet. Somewhere public,” Eddie says, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah? Where’s that, Ed?” I ask. The pounding behind my eyes is worse now. I need to get out of this house. Then I need a session on the bag or the weights, some loud music. I don’t need to hit someone. Not that.

“How about that play park on Fosters Road? That’s pretty public, especially around 3:00 p.m.” His voice is bravado, amused. It’s totally fucking misjudged.

“Fosters Road is a bit out of your way, Ed.” It’s a warning while I count to ten.