Dead Tomorrow

98

Later they walked back along the wind-blown, almost deserted boardwalk, towards the multistorey car park. Fuelled by three whisky sours and half a bottle of wine Lynn was feeling mellow. And sad for Okuma. He had never known his father. His mother had died of a drugs overdose when he was seven and he’d then been brought up by foster parents who had sexually abused him. After them had followed a series of care homes. At fourteen, he’d joined a Brighton street gang, the only people, he said, who had given him any sense of self-worth.

For a while he’d made money as a runner for a local drug dealer, then, after a spell in an approved school, had got himself into the Business Studies course at Brighton Poly. He’d married, fathered three children, but, a few months after graduating, his wife had left him for a wealthy property dealer. Since then he had decided that the only way to achieve any kind of status was to make a large amount of money. That’s what he was trying to do now. But so far his life had been a series of false starts.

A few years ago he had concluded that it was hard to amass big money, quickly, through legitimate business enterprises, so he had taken to scamming the system.

‘All business is a game, Lynn,’ he said. ‘Right?’

‘Well – I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘No? I understand how collection agencies work. You make your big money on what you can get back from debts that are already written off. That’s not a game?’

‘Bad debts ruin companies, Reg. They put people out of work.’

‘But without entrepreneurs like me, the businesses would never start in the first place.’

She smiled at his logic.

‘But, hey, we should not be talking shop on a romantic date, Lynn.’

Despite her haze of alcohol, she remained totally focused on her mission. Tomorrow morning she had to transfer the balance of the funds to the account of Transplantation-Zentrale. Whatever that took.

Okuma had his arm around her shoulders. Suddenly he stopped and tried to kiss her.

‘Not here!’ she whispered.

‘We go back to your place?’

‘I have a better idea.’

She dropped her hand down, against his zipper, and gave his erection a provocative squeeze.

Back in his car, in the darkness of the half-empty car park, she pulled his zipper right down and slipped her fingers inside.

Within a few minutes, it was all over. With a tissue, she dabbed a few places where he had squirted on her blue overcoat.

He drove her home, meek as a lamb.

‘I’ll see you again soon, my beautiful one!’ he said, sliding his arm around her shoulders.

She popped the door handle, clutching the canvas bag tightly. ‘That was a nice evening. Thank you for dinner.’

‘I think I love you,’ he said.

From the relative safety of the pavement, she blew him a kiss. Then, feeling sick inside, and more than a little drunk, she hurried into the house, her brain a maelstrom of confused emotions. She went into the downstairs toilet, shut the door and knelt with her face over the bowl, thinking she was going to throw up. But after some moments she felt calmer.

Then she ran upstairs and into Caitlin’s room. It was sweltering hot and smelled of perspiration. Her daughter was asleep, iPod headset plugged into her ears, the television off. Was it her imagination, or the light, she wondered? Caitlin’s colour seemed to have gone an even deeper yellow since this morning.

Leaving the door ajar, she went into her own bedroom, took off her overcoat, placed it inside a plastic dry-cleaning bag and, feeling sick again, squashed it into the bottom of her wardrobe.

Downstairs, in the sitting room, Luke was sound asleep, with a repeat episode of Dragons’ Den that she had seen playing on the television. Grabbing the remote, she turned the sound right down, worried that it would disturb Caitlin, then went into the kitchen, poured herself a large glass of chardonnay and downed it in one go. Then she went back into the sitting room.

Luke woke with a start as she came in. ‘Hi! How was your evening?’

Lynn, the wine rushing straight to her head, felt her face reddening. It was a good question. How was her evening?

She felt dirty. Guilty. Dishonest. But at this moment, she did not care. Looking down at the canvas bag full of banknotes, she said quietly, ‘It was fine. Mission accomplished. How’s Caitlin?’

‘Weak,’ he said. ‘Not good. Do you think-?’

She nodded.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘God, I hope so.’

For the first time ever, she hugged him. Held him tight. Held him like the lifeline he now truly was.

And felt the drop of his tears on her face.

Then they both heard a terrible scream from upstairs.