The Talisman

Chapter fourteen

The last eight years had been good, no one could deny that, Dora least of all. She and Alex had moved into the lucrative years of the flourishing London clubland. She had changed her looks — now she went in for the Diana Dors style, with pencil-slim skirts, shoulder-length hair and pale lipsticks. She always wore thick, false eyelashes, with midnight-blue mascara, and she had made sure she kept her figure. She squeezed herself into the skirts, wore uplift bras to help her sagging tits, and still looked younger than her age, but only at a distance. The small lines had deepened and the more she tried to cover them the more aware of them she became.

The club just about ran itself, but they had to deal with a lot of aggravation from villains demanding protection money. Alex always paid without a murmur, as he had seen what happened when other club owners didn’t. The places were ‘fired’, or fights broke out among the guests, uninvited guests who drank a skinful and then picked rows and broke mirrors and noses. Dora had been all for fighting the thugs, calling in the police, but she had as usual given way to Alex.

After the first few months Alex had realized he was not a good front man. His scarred face didn’t actually add to the ambience, and so he left it to Dora. He was always working behind the scenes, though, always there when needed, and the club ran like clockwork. He had fingers in many other small businesses — he had bought out Harry Driver years ago, and ran his sweatshops and betting shops as well as his small drinking clubs. As he did at Masks, Alex paid protection money to keep things quiet, but there was a growing undercurrent of violence as gang warfare raged between rival East End gangs for territory. Alex played no part in the violence, and became known as a ‘steady’, a man anyone could rely on, a man who always kept his word. He was an honourable man and it paid off. He was left to run his clubs and his offshoot businesses without much trouble.

After resisting at first, Dora gave way as she watched many clubs being taken over by the gangs. She also complied for her own safety. She had branched out, no longer living in Johnny Mask’s old place, and had bought herself a three-storey house in Notting Hill Gate. Johnny’s flat was known as the ‘dossing pad’, where the hostesses from the club took back their tricks — all part of the club’s ‘social benefits’.

Dora kept her own special stable of girls clean and on a quick turnaround, but like Alex she also had a second string to her bow. The Notting Hill Gate house became known as a ‘party’ place, with girls even more beautiful than those at Masks. They were from all kinds of backgrounds, but classy, and all in it for the fast money. The films and ‘private cabarets’ were expensive, and only for those with a lot of money or connections. Dora was a ‘madame’, and a tough one. She tolerated no nonsense and her house was tasteful and, above all, well run. Even more important, it was safe. The law was paid off; politicians, magistrates and the aristocracy were welcomed along with the odd chief of police and foreign diplomat. The Notting Hill Gate house was a very lucrative business on its own.

Trusted and well liked, Dora was paid handsomely for her small parties. She was also earning a fortune. Alex, of course, knew about her little ‘perks’, said that as long as she didn’t involve him it was fine, but he refused to take part in any of the activities although he kept an eye on her books.

Dora also ran a team of girls known as the ‘cash and carry’, who were planted in the casinos with ready money supplied by Dora. The big, high-rolling gamblers, the female ones with only a certain amount of money to spend each week, would sell off their jewels to continue gambling when their cash ran out. The women were mostly foreign, Arabs, Lebanese, and whenever they removed a bracelet or a ring Dora’s girls would move in and buy it for cash at a quarter of its value.

Wrapped in her white mink coat, Dora sat in the back of her Rolls. She was nervous, wondering what Alex would say. She knew how much he depended on her, and she chain-smoked, stubbing out the cigarette after one puff and lighting another immediately. The Rolls stopped at a traffic light, just a short distance from her home, on the corner of Ladbroke Grove. She leaned forward and pressed the button, the glass slid back. ‘Pull over, just for a minute.’

The Rolls glided to the side of the road and stopped, engine ticking over. Dora thought it was fate — it had to be — all these years and not a word, and tonight of all nights she saw him, knew it was him just from one look.

Johnny Mask, wearing a filthy raincoat and with a hat pulled down over his straggly, greasy hair, was picking through a wastebin at the side of the road near the traffic lights.

‘I want you to do something... You see the guy, the dosser on the side of the road by the wastebin? Take your hat off, put your collar up.’

Dora lowered the window and watched the chauffeur walk behind Johnny Mask and drop two twenty-pound notes on to the wet pavement. Johnny had stopped rummaging, was staring at something he had taken out of the bin. The chauffeur tapped Johnny on the shoulder, pointed to the ground.

‘You drop something, mate?’

The chauffeur walked on, crossed the road and returned to the Rolls.

Johnny Mask looked down at the folded bills, gave the chauffeur a look and then a smile, his old smile, patting his pockets. He bent down and picked up the wet notes, gave a shifty look round and beetled off down Ladbroke Grove.

Down and out, Johnny was still the same. Dora pressed the button and the window glided up. She knew he would be drunk out of his already addled mind within the hour. So much for the past, she was now sure where her future lay.

Dora entered the club. It was early, so there were few punters about. Those that knew her smiled, and Arnie gave her his usual welcome.

‘Hello, Lana, how’s things?’

Arnie had a fixation on Lana Turner, and as Dora looked like her he had always called her Lana. She smiled and patted his arm, knew she would miss old Arnie. She weaved her way through the tables, stopped to fix a flower arrangement, looked over at two of her girls and gave a small wave. Then she opened the door to the inner sanctum.

Alex was at his desk as she knew he would be. She tossed her mink over the easy chair and poured herself the usual iced water, and leaned on the small corner bar.

Alex barely looked up from the accounts. He had not changed much — he wore his hair slicked back, oiled with Brylcreem, but he didn’t seem to have changed. His thick-set shoulders and heavily muscled arms were still courtesy of George Windsor, as they still worked out together regularly. Because he frequently had considerable amounts of cash to bank, he carried a gun in an underarm holster, and his suits were cut by a skilled East End tailor to disguise it. He did not bother applying for a licence; with his record he was sure to be turned down.

Always immaculately dressed, Alex looked more like a City gent than a club owner in his pale blue shirts with detachable white collars, and dark, pinstriped suit. Dora often wondered if he only had the one suit, as he never wore any other colour or style. Only his face distorted the image.

Dora had never been to Alex’s flat in the East End. At one time she had wondered what it would be like, but when she dropped hints for an invitation they were ignored. Eventually she put Alex down as a skinflint because he showed no outward signs of his newfound affluence. He did not smoke or drink, and seemed to have no friends apart from George Windsor. However, he did buy a Jaguar every year, and listed it as a company car for tax purposes, although no one else was ever allowed to drive it. Alex paid Arnie a tenner a week to make sure it was waxed regularly and remained in pristine condition.

Dora sipped her iced water, thinking what an oddball he was. ‘Alex, do you mind if I ask you something personal?’

He didn’t even look up from the books, just lifted his pen towards her and carried on writing.

‘You got a girl hidden at your place?’

Alex laughed and said there were enough around the club without having one at home. She knew he occasionally took girls up to the old flat, but never twice, or if he had she didn’t know about it. Sometimes the girls talked to her, asked about him.

‘That your personal question, is it?’

She clinked the ice in her glass and perched her bum on the edge of the desk. ‘Nope... You’re not gay, are you? I mean, really gay, sort of a closet queen?’

He jabbed the pen into her side then dropped it on the desk. ‘No, I am not a closet poofter, what’s all this leading to? What d’you really want, Dora, come on, out wiv it.’

Dora saw him grimace. He tried so hard to speak correctly, but still he used words like ‘wiv’ and ‘somefink’ when he wasn’t concentrating. She found the way he tried to copy the toffs’ accent endearing. She herself had taken elocution lessons for years, and had suggested Alex do the same. Her voice now had little or no trace of her own East End origins.

Alex tapped the books and asked again what she wanted. She sighed, chewed her lips. ‘Is this all you want out of life, Alex? This place, your little sidelines — don’t you want a family, kids — you know, the things most people want?’

He picked up her hand, her left hand, and looked at the ring. He laughed, but didn’t let go. ‘What’s this? Don’t tell me that Texan wants to make an honest woman of you? That what all this is leading up to? Well, don’t ask me to walk down the bleedin’ aisle.’

Dora snatched her hand back. ‘Do me a favour! You think I’d get married here, with all these apes looking on? Oh, he knows all about me, don’t get me wrong, but we’d get a quickie licence in Nevada, or some place like that. What you think of him, Alex?’

Alex shrugged and picked up his pen. ‘I’m not marryin’ him, you are. Seems an all right enough bloke.’

Dora paced up and down for a moment, then sat on the edge of the desk again. ‘It’s my chance, Alex. I can make a new life for myself, no worry about running into some “john” I had God knows how many years ago... He lives in Houston, don’t think I ever laid anybody from there.’

Alex stared at her, knew she was serious, and he rubbed his nose. ‘So how much do you want? I’ll buy you out.’

Just like that, no arguments, no recriminations, no sarcastic remarks. She wanted to cry.

‘What’s the matter, I said the wrong fing?’

‘No, no, you great big idiot, you said just the right thing and I love you for it, I really love you, Alex.’ She hugged him, but he gently pulled his arms away and opened up the safe.

‘I saw Johnny Mask tonight — he looked like a dosser, thieving out of a wastebin. It must have been fate, sort of helped me make up my mind.’

‘You’d never end up like that. Here you go, let’s sort through the contracts.’

Watching him laying out the documents on the desk, taking out the chequebooks and cashbox, Dora thought to herself that he wasn’t wasting a minute. ‘You think I’ll make a good wife?’

‘No, lousy. Yer can’t cook, can’t do nothing ordinary — but then, you never could... Yeah, I’d say you’ll make ‘im a great wife. Now put yer name on the dotted line.’

‘Alex, if you asked me, I’d stay. But you don’t need me here any more, do you? Place runs itself, more or less.’

Alex twisted the pen, then suddenly held out his hand to her. He fingered her tiny white hands with the long, blood-red nails. She knew he was the best friend she would ever have, and began to get tearful. She really cared for him. ‘You know, Alex, you should take a break. Everybody has to at some time. He won’t come down here now. I know why you’re always here. But Eddie’s not coming back, not here.’

His hand tightened on hers and his grip began to hurt her. His voice was quiet and cold. ‘One day he’ll come back — if not for you, he’ll be looking for me. An’ I’ll be ready, waiting. I’ll surprise him. Now sign these contracts if that’s what you want.’

In his clean, neat flat Alex sat with his arms folded behind his head. He owned Masks outright, plus Dora’s Notting Hill Gate property, and he began to calculate just how much he was worth. He grinned to himself, he was doing all right — more than all right, he was making it and he was going to go even further. He had to admit the buy-out had almost cleaned him out of ready cash, but he would soon be flush again. He began to think about buying the year’s new model Jaguar XK120, the sports model, he’d have it custom made.

Going to the bathroom, he picked up his toothbrush and squeezed some paste on to it. He stared at his muscular body in the mirror, then began to brush his teeth. He was always very selfconscious about an ill-fitting plate he had to use after losing two front teeth at the hands of his prison guards. He kept it by his bed at night in a small cup. He splashed cold water over his face and patted it dry.

He would have liked to celebrate his success, but there was no one he particularly wanted to see. He pulled on his freshly laundered pyjamas and turned back the bed. From habit, he always made it as he had been forced to in prison. The small flat was bare, only his precious, worn books were on display. The cleanliness and neatness of the two white-walled rooms verged on the obsessive. A kitchen table and two chairs were the only other pieces of furniture. He had painted them white, and often a vase of fresh flowers stood on the table. His writing paper, pens and sharp pencils stood in groups in a small holder. Every garment had its hanger, socks and shirts had their space. Each drawer was lined with paper.

At night Alex would spend his time reading, always aware of the limits of his education. He liked routine, and every night when he returned from the club he would put in two hours’ work. He was taking several university courses by post. He never intended to take any of the exams, it was purely for his own enjoyment, and these hours were precious to him.

He sat at the table, his exercise books in front of him, but he couldn’t concentrate, so he lay down on his bed instead. There was someone he would dearly have liked to show off his success to, and that person was Edward. He whispered to the white walls, ‘I can wait, Eddie, I can wait, and I’m going to get rich waiting.’

Chapter fifteen

While Alex climbed to success in England, Edward’s preparations for the ‘big scam’ in South Africa were moving towards their conclusion. Skye Duval worked at the press releases for the reopening of the mines, all due to the assurance of a young scientist carrying out experiments on their owners’ land. The mines were mostly fictitious and so far afield the reports would take some time to verify.

BB was deliberately getting himself deeper and deeper into debt with the banks. Mortgaging the house was the last move. All his defunct mines were now open, and to all intents and purposes active.

Rumours began to spread like a small bush fire, continually fuelled. The De Veer Corporation placed a notice in the newspapers disassociating themselves from the ‘new chemical method of assessing mining areas’. Edward was unobtainable, supposedly travelling across Africa. A group of technicians were put into Edward’s laboratory to take over his experiments. Hundreds of thousands of phials took time to assimilate, none could be taken at face value. They had to begin taking their own samples from the same areas, but they had Edward’s notes and positive samples, all linked directly to the reopening of the mines.

Edward had a secret meeting with Skye. They had to have a headline, and fast. They needed bulk findings quickly, and they needed names and photographs. They were running out of money, running out of the jewels Edward was using for the samples, and running out of gold. They were so close and yet, without substantive evidence to back up the claims fed to the papers by Skye Duval, the whole scam could fall apart like a pack of cards.

Luck was on their side, in the form of Sylvia Van der Burge’s death. Richard arrived in South Africa for the funeral, and his visit coincided with a consignment of stones being sent to England.

BB was not expecting his son. He had not had time to mourn his wife’s death, or even take it in properly, and he looked sadly at his only surviving son. ‘I’m sorry... so sorry the poor old gel’s gone.’

Richard was irate, and stormed at his father. ‘Sorry? I like that! I’ve had to drop everything to fly out here. On top of that, you haven’t paid the nursing home bills, and then there’s the cost of the funeral.’

BB wanted to block out his son’s carping, vicious voice. His face flushed bright red. ‘Inconvenient, is it? Your mother’s death is inconvenient?’

Richard gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, yes, inconvenient. And that’s being truthful. The news hasn’t exactly bowled you over, has it? She was your wife.’

‘Yes, God bless her, she was my wife, and — God help me — your mother.’

Richard clenched his hands and swallowed. ‘The nursing home has to be paid, the funeral costs... I don’t have any cash, you’ll have to put a notice in the papers.’

BB shuddered — how Sylvia had doted on this boy. He took out his big handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘You know, Dickie, she was a sweet soul, but when my boys died they took part of her with them, left nothing for me. She gave you all the love she had left, along with every penny.’

BB sobbed, his handkerchief over his face, blubbering like a child. Richard was about to put his arms around his father, hold him, but he heard BB moan the names of his dead brothers. Even now he wasn’t weeping for his wife, but for his beloved first-born sons. Richard felt the old familiar jealousy sweep over him. His brothers’ deaths had not only destroyed his mother, taken a part of her with him — they had taken all of his father’s love, leaving nothing for him.

Richard helped himself to a drink and they discussed the arrangements. ‘Perhaps you should also know that the bank will be calling in your loan any day now, I suggest you put those worthless pieces of crap on the market while I’m here. It’ll just about cover my expenses, and the bank will more than likely take the house from under your feet.’

BB knew exactly when the bank loans would be called in. He was worried that someone might put two and two together; it was, after all, Richard who had introduced Edward to De Veer’s, and someone might remember. They were so close now that Edward too was worried, and he went to meet BB.

‘Old girl kicked the bucket, that’s why Richard’s here.’

‘Sorry, I’m so sorry... You holding up all right, are you?’

Richard would have been blind with fury if he had seen the way his father’s eyes glowed for Edward. ‘Aye, I’m better now I’ve seen you, son. I need a bit of human contact. We’ll see it through, though, eh? We’ll get the buggers, won’t we?’

Edward nodded. Any day now the banks would call in BB’s markers and he still had one move to make.

‘I have the explosives boy standing by — Thin Willy, good chap, trust him. But without the goods we can’t do a damned thing... You know, in the old days I kept an old jamjar full of rough cuts, all the old-timers used to keep one stone per haul as a good luck stake, now... well, there aren’t many of us left, not the old-timers.’

Edward couldn’t sleep, the millions and millions of rough stones pouring out of the De Veer mines daily were, like his scam, so close and yet so far. The security was tough, no one could get near them. Edward sat up. No one? What about Richard Van der Burge himself? He not only got close but he carried bloody bags full back and forth to England.

Edward approached Richard almost immediately after his mother’s funeral. He talked about mundane things — did Richard still see Allard? Then, nonchalantly, he asked if Richard was still carrying for De Veer’s.

‘Yep, still the blessed errand boy, what about you? Oh, you work for them, of course.’

It was obvious that Richard had only half his mind on Edward, the other half on some matter of his own.

‘You all right? Seem a bit down?’

Richard shrugged and said that was putting it mildly. ‘Truth is, old man, I am in what one could only describe as a tight corner, so tight I’m choking to death, and I can’t see a way out.’

Edward played him deftly, not pushing for explanations, not too eager, but still interested.

‘Might as well tell you, I suppose. Got myself into more of the old trouble, lost a lot of money on the tables.’

Edward hinted that his own fortunes were about to change. He became cagey, but let out the information inch by inch until he could tell Richard had taken the bait. When Edward let slip that it was a little bit of a scam that’d bring in about a quarter of a million, Richard grabbed his arm. ‘Can you tell me about it?’

‘Can’t really tell you too much. It’s a bit dodgy, and I’m not the only one involved... You might even know one of the chaps, so I can’t really.’

‘Oh, come on, tell me. You know I won’t say a word, really I won’t... Must be crooked, the way you’re so wary. Come on, tell me.’

Richard had swallowed the bait, and slowly Edward gave him enough details, not that he would be able to trace any of it for himself.

Richard laughed. ‘So when this reporter chappie gives a big splash about the mine reaping you’ll sell... Well, wish you luck — sounds easy, bit too easy... Where you getting the roughs to throw about?’

Edward shook his head, then grabbed Richard’s arm. ‘Listen, we could cut this guy out, the one we’ve got lined up. You would be perfect, my God... Look, aren’t you carrying back a load this weekend? You’d pay off all your debts, no one would be any the wiser — plus you’d have money in your pocket. Look, I may be able to let you in on it, just a possibility, I’m not sure...’

Richard fell for it hook, line and sinker. ‘It would be easy enough for me to do. You see, we keep the stones in a safety vault, but I take them with me on the plane. I’ll change my flight to the next day and I’ll still be able to get the stones delivered on time because it’s the weekend.’

Edward left Richard hanging on tenterhooks to see if he would be able to bring him into the scam.

Without mentioning who he was using to place the gems, Edward called BB and gave him the news it was ‘on’. He then called Skye, instructing him to get cracking. He had the stones, they could do it, but Skye had to move fast to set up the mine.

The girl was hired, a prostitute brought from Johannesburg and installed in a hotel. She was to be paid five thousand for her part in the scam, and she would return home the same day so she would not be able to answer any questions.

Skye met with Thin Willy to prepare the explosives, and all the men hired by BB were gathered together, waiting. Five more journalists had been tipped off, and had their cameras ready.

Skye photographed the prostitute posing as the granddaughter of the mine owner, holding in her hands the rough diamonds like blackened, muddy stones. The mine was cordoned off as the press interviewed the girl, and the men patrolled the new fences with guns at the ready.

‘Miss Smith’, with Skye taking photographs all the time, was driven to the diamond weighing and verification office. The press gathered around them, flashbulbs popping. She was photographed outside the office doors, smiling and waving a bottle of champagne.

In her hotel room, Edward waited to collect the stones. She was slightly drunk from the champagne, and seemed not to care about her body search. Edward replaced the stones in their little white bags, then into the case, after which Skye took ‘Miss Smith’ to the airport and saw her safely on her way.

The next day Skye had sold his story to every paper, with different pictures to go with the stories. The photos of the visit to the diamond merchant’s office to verify the stones were of excellent quality, and the ones at the minehead showed Miss Smith displaying the stones as the boys grouped around. There were also shots taken by flash down the newly blasted mine.

All the newspaper reports stated that Miss Smith had been prepared to sell until a young scientist from the De Veer Corporation had assured her that her old grandfather’s mine was indeed alive and kicking not more than another hundred feet down. Skye’s article also mentioned that the experiment had been verified and that Japan was fighting to get a share of what would be the biggest breakthrough in the history of mining. The news caused an uproar, and an even greater ripple passed through the laboratories of De Veer’s. When they checked the exact location of the mine, they found that Edward Stubbs had already earmarked it as being live. Again De Veer’s declined to make a statement as to the authenticity of Edward’s experiments, saying they were not prepared to disclose their findings before further examination.

With trembling hands, Richard retrieved his case and Edward gave his word that he would be paid in full by banker’s draft in any currency he desired within the month. All the stones were intact, and Richard returned to England.

BB now played his final hand at the Pretoria Club. He weaved his way in and declared that he was buying drinks for everyone in the house. The news items littered every table. ‘That lad’s a genius, he’s proved it once, now it’s my turn.’

Edward made the call to the club and BB’s voice boomed at him down the line. For a moment he thought BB was having a heart attack, then he started to laugh as the old boy gave the performance of his life.

He would have laughed even harder if he had seen BB stagger to his chair in the club, gripping his arm. ‘The bank, those bastards are foreclosing on me.’

He began to think he had overdone it, because he could actually feel a burning pain down his left arm.

They all watched as the old boy, his face flushed bright red, gritted his teeth and marched, leaning on his stick, to the car, and drove himself home. Edward was waiting, ran to him, clapping his hands. ‘My God, BB, we’re going to do it, look — the bank’s publicized their foreclosure on your loans, when that auction starts we’ll clean up.’

BB felt terrible, his chest hurt and his arm was stiff. He nodded and asked Edward to bring him a brandy.

Concerned, Edward stepped back, looked the old boy over, and hurried to the drinks cabinet. He carried the bottle back and poured a stiff measure, helped BB’s shaking hands lift the glass to his lips.

‘I’ll be fine, just fine... Now then, son, you know where everything is kept, don’t you, never know, old ticker’s playing me up.’

Edward held the old man close, gripped him tight. ‘Now listen to me, you old bastard, I do know where everything is, and in no way are you opting out of the last stage. You not got the guts for it? Backing out at the last minute?’

The old boy swiped the air with his cane. ‘Am I hell, I’ll be at the bloody auction, I’ll be there.’ He let the cane slide to the floor and held his big hand out. Edward knelt down beside him.

‘God bless the day I met you, you’ve made an old man happy.’

Edward kissed him on the top of his bristling white hair and said he would be waiting. ‘Think big and your dreams will grow, think small and you’ll fall behind.’

The next day BB drove himself to the auction of all his worldly possessions in his gleaming old Bentley. As he entered the room, a hush fell over the crowd. He pointed his stick at two bankers and told them they were vultures. He sat up at the front as the auctioneer took his place. The house went under the hammer for a ludicrously low price. From the front came the boom of BB’s voice, ‘Bastards... bastard bankers.’

Next on the agenda were the mines, to be sold as a job lot. BB waved his stick, screaming that the bankers were taking his very life.

The bidding started, and BB had to hold on to his stick with both hands. He wished Edward, his adopted son, could be there... he closed his eyes and the bidding sounded like sweet music...

‘I am bid five... and six million... and one and two, eight... I have nine... and one, ten million... twelve...’

The Van der Burge mines went under the hammer for sixteen million. Cheap at the price — if they had been as good as the reports they should have fetched twenty times that amount. BB didn’t feel he had cheated in any way. The vultures deserved it.

BB could see Edward waiting as he stepped out of the car and he beamed, held up four fingers four times... Edward slid down the wall of the house, rolled on the ground and screamed with delight. ‘We did it, we did it!’

That afternoon BB signed over all the deeds to his dead mines. He kissed the cheque lovingly, and banked it the same day. Edward placed his mines on the market and made five million each. Like his partner, he deposited the cheque the same day. They were moving as fast as possible, knowing that at any moment the ludicrous ‘gold rush’ they had instigated would be proved a con. BB had already signed the drafts of the major sums over to Edward as agreed. The rest he retained, leaving very little for himself. Overnight Edward earned himself fifteen million. The dam would burst at any time, and preparations for him to leave South Africa began to move ahead.

Skye Duval threw himself at Edward’s feet and kissed his ankles. ‘We did it! We fucking did it!’

Edward turned on him. He was so tense he was like a coiled spring. ‘I’ve got to get out. I’m the one who started this rolling, so they’ll be coming for me. I’m leaving for London on the next plane.’

Skye crawled across the floor and hauled himself up into a chair. He had been drinking steadily, and was so flushed with the success of their scheme he couldn’t stop laughing.

Edward left Skye opening a bottle of champagne and went upstairs to BB’s study. Hearing Edward coming, BB knew he had done the right thing. Edward would receive his share too if anything happened... He had made Edward his heir.

Edward went to the old man and held him tight. ‘I’ve got two tickets, one for you as well. You packed? We’ll move out this afternoon. The vultures won’t take long, BB.’

BB’s eyes went moist, and his voice was gruff with the effort of trying not to show how deeply touched he was. ‘No, lad, you go and make more, much more. Put all you have to good use, make yourself powerful and untouchable. I did it once and, by Christ, with your help I almost did it again. But Edward, son, I’ve no more mountains to climb, I’m satisfied now and I’m in debt to you.’ He stuck his will in Edward’s top pocket, and Edward opened it. He gripped the old man’s knees. ‘You can’t do this, BB, what about Richard?’

‘He’ll hate me, but that won’t be anything new. He deserves no more than he gets. Now, lad, bugger off. Any day the news’ll break what you got yourself up to. You’ll not only have them after you, but the police as well. Go on, go on, and don’t look back. Just walk out, and remember, Eddie, think big and all your dreams will grow, think small and you will fall behind. Think that you will...’

Edward walked out and didn’t look back, he couldn’t. Skye was waiting for him outside the room. He was staggering drunk and flung his arm around Edward’s shoulder. ‘Let’s you an’ me go on a long jaunt together, eh? Take the place apart, just you an’ me, brother.’

Edward scared Skye as he shook his arm away violently and picked up his suitcase. ‘You’re not my brother, and you’re drunk out of your skull. You go your way, Skye — I’m going back to London.’

Skye couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He trailed after Edward as he rang for a taxi. ‘Eddie, what’s the matter? Has something gone on between you and the ol’ boy?’

Edward turned to Skye, his face like a mask. ‘There’s some land we should think about buying. I made a few discoveries when I was doing the collections — perlite’s there, make a bundle with it in the building trade. I think you should stay around here. No one can touch you about the press releases — you were just doing your job. Blame the whole scam on me. I think you should stay.’

Speechless, Skye backed away from Edward.

‘I’m going alone, Skye. Here’s the details of the land and some things for you to look into. I’ll be in touch as soon as I’m settled in London.’

Skye felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. He shook his head. ‘Oh, man, I don’t believe this. You’re just walking out on me, leaving me here? Well, fuck you, buddy boy — I’ll be on that plane with you...’

Edward sighed. He could see the taxi drawing up outside the gates. He signalled to it and the cab turned into the drive. ‘I don’t think you quite understand. You’re staying put, I might need you here. You’ve got nothing to leave for, and you’ve got enough cash to buy as many black boys and as much booze as you want.’

Skye gripped Edward’s arm. ‘You know I did all this for you, for us both... for you an’ me, buddy, an’ if you’re getting out of this fucking country, so am I.’

Edward stared at him, then reached through the open taxi window and touched Skye’s face. ‘You stay here, I need you here. We’re not through with this place, buddy boy. Now you’ve got the smell of money, think about doubling all those dollars... I’ll call you...’

Skye watched the yellow taxi drive away. He leaned against the villa walls, crying... then suddenly he was running to his car. He drove like a crazy man back to his bungalow, ransacked the drawers, knowing all the time it wouldn’t be there. He tipped out the last drawer and, sure enough, his passport and birth certificate were gone. He was so stunned at the implications, at how Edward had used him, that he collapsed on the bed. He had walked straight into Edward’s carefully prepared trap.

‘You bastard... Oh, you bastard...’

With a wondrous gleam in his eyes, BB surveyed the havoc he and Edward had wrought, revelling in it. Greed had made men he had thought were his friends grab at dried, dusty, empty earth — men who were too greedy to wait for the scientists to approve Edward’s theory.

He drove to the black area of town and pulled up outside a small shanty. Children gathered around the old black Bentley in the dusty road. BB banged on the broken-down door and called for Thin Willy.

A gnarled, thick-set man with muscles as strong as iron standing out on his arms, greeted BB warmly. They had a genuine affection for each other.

‘Time, Willy, it’s time.’

Willy nodded his thickly curled greying head and walked back into the house. He came out carrying two sticks of dynamite. BB put the keys to the Bentley into the black man’s hands, and they both climbed in. ‘Yours now, so you drive.’

Willy beamed his cracked-tooth smile and shook his head, laughing. Then he drove carefully, hunched over the wheel, to the Fordesburg mine, the only one BB had retained as it was in his wife’s name.

Willy parked the Bentley and took a torch to help the old man across the fields and the overgrown, unused tracks. With an iron rod he heaved away the massive stone that had been placed in front of the old shaft. At last it rolled back far enough for them both to squeeze through. Thin Willy guided BB, holding on to his arm, until they reached the first shaft, the gates rusted, the ropes rotting. Pulling hard, Willy looked with some trepidation at BB. ‘May not take your weight — twenty-five years a long time, boss.’

BB waved him aside and climbed into the old-fashioned cradle. Willy handed him the explosives, they shook hands, and then Willy began to turn the cradle’s wheel.

Far below Willy heard the clank of the bucket as it halted, and the echo of BB’s voice, then he felt his way out of the mine. He rolled the rock back into place. Two names were carved into the rock; John Van der Burge and Michael Van der Burge. Willy patted the rock and sighed. There was no record of the names of the other boys who had died with the two white boys, but then they had only been kaffirs.

Willy walked back to the Bentley. The promise he had made to BB more than twenty-five years ago was now fulfilled. He waited, the keys in the ignition, until he heard the low rumble and boom from deep below the ground. BB was laid to rest with the ghosts of his sons. He had gone the way he had chosen, with pride. Willy knew BB would make headlines one last time, as by morning the papers would have received his letter.

The letter did make headlines, and the photo of BB was centre page. He had taken total credit for the outrageous con trick, and by doing so also took all the blame. Edward Stubbs was cleared as being nothing but an innocent young student with a hopeful but foolish idea that he could find out with chemicals what the mighty bowels of the earth contained.

The rocks that fell around the old man, burying him, had the last laugh. They shed over the dead man a mound of small, pebble-like objects. Diamonds.

Edward was excited as the pilot requested the passengers to fasten their seat belts, they would be landing at Heathrow in ten minutes.

Eight long years had passed since Edward’s arrival in South Africa. He had always known it would take a considerable time, but had not anticipated just how long he would be away from England. It was 1954, and he stared down through the clouds at the City of London far below. The Thames was like a snake curving through the city. He leaned back against the headrest as the plane dipped and took up its position in the stack. He was moving into a new phase of his life; he was a multimillionaire and still not thirty years old. He felt as if he had the world in his hands, and laughed aloud. Edward Stubbs had done it, he had made it, and now he was back and determined to climb even higher. Money he had, now he wanted power.

Chapter sixteen

Edward settled back into living in England. He had made a couple of half-hearted attempts to trace his brother, but there had always been some urgent matter that took precedence. A year after his return he drove in his new Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce back to the East End, back to his roots.

The Roller cruised along, past his old home, or rather the debris of where a prefab had once stood. He got out and walked along the entire road; he owned plot twelve, Evelyne’s house, he owned the corner site, the Meadows’ old house, plus the plot at the far end, Freda and Ed’s.

The council developers could not move with the land at each end and dead centre being privately owned, and they sold the whole stretch of land to Edward at a ridiculously low sum. The next time Edward drove along the old street he owned it, every brick and every piece of debris, the whole street, with the canal running along the back and direct views over the Thames.

Edward had formed a building company, bought it off the peg. It was already called the Barkley Company, and he liked it, liked the sound of it, repeated it in his mind a few times. Offices with a yard were purchased for the building company, and Edward stood up to watch the sign, ‘Barkley Company Ltd’, being painted. Four men were employed to erect corrugated iron fencing the whole way around the street site.

‘What you going to build, Mr Barkley, sir? Offices? Warehouses?’

He smiled and said nothing, just instructed the men to complete the fences, he hadn’t decided yet.

Edward noticed a property for sale in Greenwich and studied the brochure. The place was ridiculously cheap, described as ‘a small, stately manor house, giving direct access to the river’. He took a boat trip along the Thames, standing breathing in the cold river air and the sights. He had missed England and was glad to be back. The river, the barges and the bridges gave him a sense of freedom.

The house was so run down that the roof had sunk in, the gardens were overgrown and the access to the river was blocked by driftwood and leftover debris of bombed-out wharves. The estate agent bowed and scraped to Mr Barkley as he opened the front door, and their voices echoed through the dark marble hall. The dusty cobwebs hung in swathes, and everywhere was filled with rubble. One room had been used by tramps — they had left their empty wine and meths bottles, and the stench of their urine pervaded the air.

The master suite overlooked the river, directly across from his old home. He could stand at the window and see where he had been raised. ‘Tell your company, I will give them ten thousand below the asking price, in cash. Contact me at my office tomorrow morning.’

The agent almost fainted as he calculated his commission, and his luck in being the one to be given the keys to show Mr Edward Barkley of the Barkley Company around the old manor. As he locked and bolted the thick oak front door, he noticed, for the first time, the strange carved gargoyles looming from the eaves of the dilapidated roof. He made a mental note to contact his ‘knocker boy’ friends. The old place would be demolished, and there could be a bit of cash made from ‘devils’ heads’ up the King’s Road.

Within one week the deeds belonged to Edward, and within a month of the completion twenty-four builders started work. They were not going to demolish the manor as everyone thought, far from it. Mr Barkley was going to be in residence, and he wanted the best, nothing but the best.

Driving away from the manor house Edward was very happy. The work was going along fine. He turned on the car radio and suddenly decided he would visit his mother’s grave. He veered off the bridge and headed for the East End cemetery.

He stared down at the neatly cut grass, the marble urn filled with fresh flowers. The caretaker told him someone came most Sunday afternoons to tend the grave. Edward tipped him well, very well, and the old man took off his cloth cap. ‘You want me to look out for him, sir? Tell ‘im you was askin’ after ‘im?’

Edward hesitated. It would look strange if he didn’t say something. ‘No, no need, thank you all the same.’

‘It’d be no trouble, guv, you jest gimme yer name an’ I’ll pass it on...’ the caretaker trailed after Edward and looked at the Rolls parked along by the railings. ‘Didn’t catch the name, sir?’

Edward stopped and turned, irritated by the man’s persistence. ‘Barkley, the name’s Barkley.’

The old man pushed his cap back, scratched his head. ‘Barkley... you any connection to the Barkleys, that big tombstone up by the grass verge? Only the geezer don’t do dat one, he does the small one up by the taps.’

Edward shrugged the man off and opened the car door, then as the old boy shambled back into the gatehouse he walked across to the Barkley tomb. It was massive, and an archangel stood on top as if on guard. The Barkley family were titled until 1864, then the title dropped, and the last names added made Edward bend down to brush off the creeping moss.

‘Edgar, Andrew, the dearly beloved sons of Edith and John Barkley... Rest Forever In Peace.’ The whole family had been wiped out in the Blitz, not that Edward felt any pity, it was the dates that interested him. Edgar and Andrew had been born in the same years as Edward and Alex Stubbs.

Edward spent a long time at Somerset House trying to check on the Stubbs family; Freedom and Evelyne had never married — both he and Alex were illegitimate. Freedom’s name was on both birth certificates as the father, but there was no marriage certificate.

Turning to the Barkley family, he made copious notes and detailed the family history. He was informed by the clerk that many records had been destroyed in the fires of the Blitz... There was no record of the deaths of the two boys, Edgar and Andrew, at Somerset House. Armed with a copy of the birth certificate of the dead Edgar, Edward applied for a new passport...

Shortly before two o’clock two Sundays later, Edward arrived at the cemetery. By four o’clock he was ready to give up when he saw the silver Jaguar draw up. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a gut feeling it would be his brother.

Almost able to touch him, Edward stood right behind Alex. ‘Hello, Alex.’

Alex straightened, clenched his fists, and froze.

‘Been waiting for you, came last Sunday too.’

Alex’s stomach turned over. He couldn’t move, and his mouth went dry. He felt the hand on his shoulder like a massive weight, and still he couldn’t turn. The hand rubbed his shoulder, then moved to his neck, skin contact. Slowly, Alex turned to look into his brother’s face. He had to lift his eyes just a fraction, but then Eddie had always been slightly taller. The brothers remained silent as they looked at one another — into each other’s souls. Edward’s hand dropped, but their eyes were locked, each trying to see into the other’s mind.

Edward reached out and traced his brother’s face, the scars, the broken nose, the crushed cheek and the ear, the one bent like an old boxer’s ear. His hands were manicured and soft, his touch gentle. Alex could only see his father, Freedom, standing before him, the thick black hair and black eyes, the straight nose and high cheekbones. Edward was a mirror image of Freedom.

Gently, Edward wrapped his arms around his brother. Alex went stiff, his body rigid, his hands clenched at his sides, ungiving, unwilling to bend to the embrace. He could smell sweet perfume in his brother’s hair, on his soft, shaved skin. He was helpless, so many emotions exploding inside him... He gritted his teeth, waiting until the arms fell away, until Edward stepped back.

This was the moment Alex had been waiting for all these years. His heart was pounding, and he swallowed. He tried to make his voice sound natural. ‘Hello, Eddie — will you have a drink with me?’

Edward smiled, and they both turned and walked away from the grave towards their separate cars. Hands shaking, Edward brought the Rolls behind the Jag. He lit a cigarette and his whole body shook. Jagged pictures flashed before his eyes. He began to sweat. As if replayed again and again, he saw his father coming towards him, his arms open wide... coming towards him, towards the knife...

Alex blasted his car horn, looking back at the Rolls, then waved his hand for Edward to follow. Alex was calm now, icy calm. He had been thrown by Edward’s resemblance to Freedom, it had unnerved him, but now he was back in control. They drove off one behind the other.

Alex stopped to pick up a bottle of rum. He didn’t know why he chose rum, he didn’t care. The Rolls drew in behind the Jag and parked, Edward locked it. He looked around the rundown street, not two miles from where they used to live. He followed Alex up the stone steps to the third landing and neither spoke a word.

The room was spartan, and Edward looked around as he took off his coat and flung it over a plastic-covered chair. The table was laid with one plate, one knife and fork, and one cup turned upside down on its saucer, the teaspoon not in the saucer but lying beside it. Every item in the small two-roomed flat was meticulously placed, even the salt and pepper, the folded paper napkin.

Opening what looked like a cupboard, Alex revealed a small sink and drainer and a tworing gas cooker. The only glasses were two thin, polished tumblers. He put them carefully on the table and unscrewed the cap of the bottle, poured two measures and replaced the cap.

‘Rum.’

Edward picked up a glass and held it. Alex offered no toast, just gulped at the rum. It burnt the back of his throat and he coughed. ‘I don’t drink.’

‘Nor do I.’ Edward tossed his down and it burned. They both coughed, put the empty glasses down on the clean table. There was a gaping void between them. Alex topped up the glasses and they drank again.

‘We’ve got to talk, Alex.’

Alex was aware of his brother’s deep aristocratic tones. He chose to speak badly, as if separating himself from his brother. ‘Oh, yeah? I’ve got nuffink ter say ter you.’

They drank again, emptying their glasses and putting them back on the table. Edward could feel the booze beginning to take effect. He reached for the bottle and poured for them both.

The suit, the posh voice, the style, brought Alex’s anger rushing up, like vomit. Edward knew his brother was working up to something, and did not try to stop it. They finished the bottle and Alex put it away carefully. The rum was having the desired effect, and he eased up.

‘What do you want?’

Edward thought about it, licked his lips. ‘I owe you, and I’m here to... to... settle.’

Alex gripped the edge of the table. He was trying to stand up straight but the floor moved.

‘I’m a rich man.’

‘So what, so am I.’

‘But I’ll make you richer.’

‘You got nuffink I want.’

Edward gripped the other side of the table, half rose, and the floor moved under him, too... ‘Your floor’s uneven.’

‘Nuffink wrong wiv my fucking floor.’

Edward stood and swayed on his feet and Alex stood opposite him and swayed. ‘We’re drunk.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yesh you are.’

‘I bet you any money I can walk dat edge of de carpet.’

Edward turned his back and walked to the carpet edge. Alex slid open the kitchen drawer and took out a knife. He had found it in a drawer at the club. It had belonged to Johnny Mask, and was razor sharp, an old stiletto, a gyppo’s cut-throat razor.

Alex watched as Edward moved very carefully to the edge of the carpet and balanced on the fringe, his arms out like a trapeze artist.

‘One million I can make it from here to there... you on?’

Alex swayed, nodded his head... he glared as Edward began his balancing act... midway along he wobbled, one foot edged off the fringe of the carpet.

‘Well, thassit, I owe you, one million...’

He slapped his chequebook on the table, fumbled for his pen, scrawled out the cheque...

‘Very funny.’

‘Not a joke, Alex, cash it, you’ll see.’

Alex moved like lightning and held the knife at Edward’s throat. This was it, the moment he had dreamed of, lain awake planning. Now it was here — he could kill Edward. But the face that stared back at him wasn’t Edward’s, it was his father’s, with the same dark eyes. Alex froze, unable to use the knife, then in a fury he hurled it across the room. Edward let out a hiss of breath, put his hand to his throat as the knife hit the cupboard door and sliced into the wood. ‘Jesus Christ.’

Edward tried to rise to his feet but Alex, having missed his long-awaited chance of revenge, felt his rage unleashed, like water bursting from a dam. He grabbed Edward by the hair and yanked his head back so hard he heard a crack. ‘You take yer fucking cheque, you cunt, and stuff it up yer arse, eat it, eat it!’

Alex began to stuff the cheque into Edward’s mouth, and Edward kicked him in the groin. Alex buckled up and backed away — then he straightened and began to roll up his sleeves. Edward slipped his tie off, broke the gold cufflinks as he too began to roll up his cuffs. Alex gestured with his hands, snarling. ‘Come on, come on then... come on, pay me, pay me for the years, Eddie, pay me.’

The two brothers fought like boxers to begin with, throwing punches at each other, punches that found their mark and hurt. They were one and the same, they were out in the back yard but this time there was no Freedom to yell instructions, no mother standing at the back door shouting for them to stop. They boxed, sparring, jabbing at each other until Alex smashed his fist into Edward’s face and his nose began to bleed... Alex then fought dirty, kicking, lunging, throwing any article of furniture close to hand. The chair crashed down on Edward’s head, and Edward hurled his body at Alex and they fell on the table, smashing it in two beneath their weight... They rolled on the floor, biting, slapping, kicking, shouting and screaming abuse at each other. They made so much noise that the old woman from the flat above began banging on the ceiling with her cane for them to shut their racket, but it went on and on... A chair was hurled through the window, smashing on to the street. Edward ran at Alex and caught his arm on the jagged glass, blood sprayed over the wall, and like a mad bull Alex charged, head down, butting Edward against the door... It splintered, and Edward hammered blows into Alex’s stomach... Alex brought his two hands, clasped together, up under Edward’s jaw and sent him reeling, sprawling backwards.

Alex threw himself on top of him, holding him up by the hair with his left hand, his right fist crashing again and again into Edward’s face. Edward’s head jerked from side to side as he caught blow after blow, and neither of them even heard the police siren, the screaming neighbours shouting that someone was being murdered.

The banging on the door as the police pounded against it, tried to force it, brought Alex to his senses, and he hauled his brother to his feet. Edward’s face was covered in blood, his shirt drenched with it, his eyes puffy and already swelling. The door burst open and the police officer gaped at the two bloody men. ‘Iss all right... is all right, officer... we’re brothers.’

Alex had to hold Edward up on his feet, hands beneath his armpits. The police officer looked around at the wrecked room, the broken windows, gave them a lecture about disturbing the peace and told them to clear up the mess in the road.

Left alone, Alex let Edward slither to the floor, ran water in the sink and splashed his face. The blood streamed from his nose and mouth and he was heaving for breath as he leaned against the wall. Edward staggered to his feet and fell down again. Alex took him a wet cloth. “Ere, wipe yer face.’

Edward held the cool cloth to his bleeding face.

‘Get out, Eddie, we’re quits.’

‘I’m going nowhere without you.’

‘It’s too late, Eddie, you’re too late, go away.’

‘I’m rich, don’t you understand? I’m rich!’

Alex dunked his head in the water and stood up, shaking the drops around him. ‘So am I... I don’t need you, I don’t need yer money, I don’t need nuffink, nobody.’

‘You married?’

‘Noooo! Fuck off!’

Edward picked up the remaining chair, set it down carefully and sat on it, folding his arms. ‘Will you just hear me out before you throw me out?’

Alex sighed, and at that moment the chair collapsed beneath Edward and he landed in a heap at Alex’s feet. Alex swore and hauled him to his feet yet again, and they caught sight of themselves in the mirror and started to laugh. Alex left his arm around his brother’s shoulders and they laughed, laughed at each other... and their roaring laughs turned into sobbing tears. They clung to each other like lovers, holding each other, afraid to let go. With tears streaming down his face, Edward held his brother’s broken and bloody face between his hands, kissed him, and Alex buried his head in his big brother’s neck.

‘We’re brothers, Alex, remember, and we’re going to be them again, I promise you, I swear to you.’

Chapter seventeen

The brothers’ reunion did not unite them immediately. Alex was not that easily won over; he could not rid himself of the bitterness he felt towards Edward. All that he had been so proud of acquiring appeared small and shabby when reviewed by Edward. He felt selfconscious under his brother’s scrutiny; Edward’s ever-present sophistication threatened him. Alex balked at changing his name; in fact, he turned against everything Edward suggested. He had been his own boss and, in his own way, happy with his accomplishments. To have them derided, almost sneered at, made him react violently.

Edward knew he had to take his time, yet he was impatient for Alex to match him, to be able to stand alongside him. As things were, he was an embarrassment. Edward made sure they were never seen together in public, and he always made the approach when he wanted to see Alex.

He had been waiting for Alex for over two hours, sitting in his car parked outside Alex’s squalid flat. He watched the Jaguar draw up, watched his brother carefully wipe the fingermarks off the bonnet. Alex looked like a crook, like a cheap con man, and Edward decided it was now or never.

Alex looked up as he approached, then turned back to inspect his motor.

‘Can I come up? Got a minute?’

Alex nodded, and walked into the building. As he waited for Edward to catch him up he could smell his cologne.

‘You smell like a whore’s bedroom.’

‘Fifty quid a bottle makes her high class, you got that kinda bird working for you? Business must be looking up.’

Alex tossed his coat over a chair and snapped, ‘Yeah, go on, Eddie, any chance you can to get a dig in. What d’you want? Get off me back, will yer?’

Edward looked around the bare room then down at his polished, manicured nails. He noticed that the chair they had broken in the fight had already been replaced.

‘I’m going to give it one last try, Alex, then, if that’s the way you want it, I’ll walk.’

‘You do that! What’s wiv this Barkley crap, eh? Who d’yer think yer kiddin’, poncin’ about? You should watch out fer yer motor, kids round ‘ere don’t know yer, you’ll ‘ave no wing mirrors...’

‘Oh yeah? They leave the crooks’ cars alone, do they?’

‘I’m no fuckin’ crook, but I’m known around here, all right?’

Edward began to unbutton his coat, shaking his head. They always had to go through this banter, it was beginning to get on his nerves.

‘Okay, Alex, I’ll give it to you straight. I’ll buy you out for any price you want, and I’ll put one million aside for you on top.’

‘Look, I heard you the first time, I’m not interested.’

Edward stared at him, his face set, then he sprang forward and gripped his brother by the neck, pushing him towards the mirror.

‘Take a good look at yourself, Alex, a real good look. The cheap suits, the face... what do you see? How far do you think you can go, Stubbs? You’ve got a record, and it’s stamped right across your forehead — ex-con!’

Alex swung round, shrugging his brother away. ‘I am what you made me, Eddie.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that? You think I come here grovelling out of anything but guilt? I’m rich, I want to help you. I want to put things right, and you won’t let me. So tell me, what will you let me do?’

‘Nothin’... I don’t want nothin’ from you. Stew in yer guilt, Eddie-boy, fuckin’ stew in it.’

‘Okay, so you won’t do it for me — how about doing it for Ma, for her? You know all she ever wanted was...’

Alex could feel the tears welling up inside him. He jabbed the air with his hand. ‘You got no right to even mention her name, you bastard! You got no right to come into my life an’ make everythin’ like a piece of shit. I worked for everythin’ I got, an’ I’m proud of what I done. I don’t need yer, I don’t want you around. You keep pushin’ me an’ I swear I’ll fuckin’ kill you. This time I won’t chuck the knife away, you’ll get it just like you gave it to Dad, hear me? You hear me?’

Alex was spoiling for another fight, as if it was the only way he could communicate with Edward. There had been too many years lost between them. Edward chose his words carefully, knowing he was on dangerous ground, clinically talking his brother down, determined to win him round. He began with flattery, telling Alex just how impressed he was with his business, saying that if he had given the impression he was not, he wanted to rectify it.

‘You think if I wasn’t impressed by you I’d be here now? I thought I was sharp, but you, Alex... Come on, I’m not putting you down in any way. All I can see is how much further you could go, and I want to give you a hand up.’

‘I need you, huh? That’s what you’re sayin’? You’re full of bullshit, you always was.’

‘I need you, it’s me that needs you. I want to be big, Alex, but I can’t do it on my own, and all I’m offering you is a partnership. But we’ve got to be clever, you know? People know who you are. What if they didn’t know you, eh? Didn’t know anything about you? Look in the mirror, your face, Alex... what do you see? Broken nose, cheek smashed in, and your ears look as if you’ve been in the ring for years.’

‘Yeah? So what? It’s my face, I can live wiv it.’

‘You don’t have to. You were a hell of a good-looking kid. Get the nose straightened, cheek fixed...’

Alex stared at his reflection, then at the handsome features of his brother. He could feel Edward’s hands on him, and he turned away. Edward held him gently, made him look at himself again.

‘You want to go through the rest of your life like this? Don’t give me your answer now, think about it. Here are some brochures of clinics in Switzerland... We’ll take it stage by stage, see it through together.’

Alex took the brochures and flicked through them. He chewed his lips, looked at Edward and back at the glossy pamphlets. ‘What about me business? You leave it more ‘n a few weeks an’ all hell breaks loose. I can’t just piss off, I run the show.’

‘I’ll take care of it, all of it, and I’ll give you the best price. You want it back after, then you’ll have it. I reckon we can really go places together, just so long as it’s together.’

Alex felt at a loss, pulled so many ways, wanting everything that Edward dangled before him but at the same time distrusting him. Edward was relentless, swinging the carrot, knowing he was at long last winning Alex over.

‘Plus a million on top — You’ve got to let me give you my guilt money, I won’t take no for an answer. It’ll be in a Geneva account in both our names. I’ll keep the club running, what’s-his-name will show me the ropes. You can’t lose, Alex.’

‘Arnie, ‘is name’s Arnie. He’s a good pal ter me.’

‘Yeah, I’ll take care of him, no problem. What do you say you sleep on it? It’s a new start for both of us, I need you with me, I want you with me. You’re my brother, we’re brothers.’

Alex sat on his single, neatly made bed. His expression was so childishly confused that Edward put his arms around him, kissing the top of his head.

‘I love you, Alex. Let me do this for you. Then it’s you and me going right to the top. I’ve got contacts; I’m already branching out, trying for big building projects. That’s where the money is, property, and I’ve got the finances to buy now while the time’s right.’

Alex remained sitting, staring blank-eyed at the clinic brochures. He knew Edward had won him round, just as he had always done when he was a kid. He turned slowly to stare at his reflection... the mirror blurred...

The nurses whispered together, checking his pulse, his drip. ‘How are you feeling, Mr Barkley? Your brother’s waiting to see you. Feel like a visitor? Yes?’

Alex was in such pain he could do nothing. His bandaged head throbbed, and he felt as though a truck had run over his face. He could smell the familiar cologne, the heavy, sweet, musky smell, and knew his brother was in the room.

‘Hey, you still using that whore’s perfume spray?’

Edward laughed and held Alex’s hand. ‘That’s my brother talking! How are you feeling?’

‘Terrible, bleedin’ terrible. Me ‘ead feels like someone kicked it in.’

Edward remained at the bedside until Alex slept. He came every day, and even spent two weeks with Alex at a rest home in the Alps. It had really only just begun, there would be more plastic surgery, involving a series of operations.

Alex’s nose was remodelled, his cheeks built up with bone taken from his hips. His ears were reshaped, his jaw rebuilt, and his teeth capped and straightened so he no longer had to wear a false plate. His face was black and swollen for many months, and he grew depressed and irritable, as if he would never be free of the bandages or the pain.

Edward discussed his brother’s progress with the doctors, and worried about his fits of depression. Alex had been away from London, from the world he knew, for almost a year, and had grown so dependent on Edward he no longer even asked about his club. The surgery had given him a complex; he didn’t want to go out, aware of the tell-tale scars, and said he felt everyone was looking at him. Instead of giving him confidence in himself, the operations had done the reverse. He had never lived in such luxury or been so well taken care of, and he was at a loss how to accept it and deal with it. He was not ready to go home, yet Edward knew he must start preparing him for his eventual return. He planned a short holiday, driving through the south of France.

Alex sat sullenly at his side, wearing dark glasses, hunched in his seat.

‘I got you some records, for speech therapy... you listening, Alex?’

‘Yeah, you gonna make me a friggin’ film-star next, are yer? Feel a right git, all these bleedin’ operations and fer what? I look like a bleedin’ patchwork quilt.’

‘They’ll heal. You should stay in France, learn the lingo.’

‘Yeah, I hear you. Who’ve I got to bleedin’ talk to, meself?’

The trip was a disaster. They argued and bickered their way through village after village until eventually Edward’s patience snapped. He was almost ready to throw in the towel when he discovered Alex in his hotel room, staring at his new face in the dressing-table mirror. The swelling and bruising had indeed gone, and there was the ghost of the old Alex, the handsome face nearly healed.

Alex turned to Edward and smiled. ‘Hey, not bad fer an ex-con, what you think?’

Edward knew then that Alex was on the mend. The following morning he had arranged a special trip, refusing to tell Alex where they were going, saying it was to be a surprise. They tried out their schoolboy French as they headed towards Cannes.

Later that afternoon Edward showed off his surprise — the Chateau La Fontaine, his gift to Alex. A twofold gift, because he was more than aware that Alex needed even more time to adjust to his new image. Edward wanted him to start losing his East End accent, wanting him to adapt at his own pace to his newfound wealth. He calculated, not in weeks or months, but in years, so he set up a project, yet another carrot that would also keep Alex occupied, and would free Edward from his nursemaid duties. He knew he had made the right decision as they drove through the chateau gates.

‘Imagine, Alex,’ Edward told him, ‘imagine what you could do with this place! You have carte blanche, as much cash as you need. Go ahead, take it back to basics and build yourself a palace.’

The Chateau La Fontaine, buried in the hills only an hour from Cannes, was originally built in 1769. During the occupation, the Germans had taken over the property and let it run to ruin. The once-splendid gardens and orchards were overgrown and tangled, but somehow the chateau, even though crumbling at its very core, retained a magnificent power.

Alex began to work on it with trepidation, then slowly the excitement of the massive undertaking took hold. He set the wheels in motion to completely reconstruct and refurbish the chateau.

One of the estimates he obtained for the interior, from Michelle Marchalle of Marchalle Fabrics, came in under budget. The company sent a representative to meet Alex and discuss the project in detail. So Alex met Miss Imura Takeda and within half an hour he had offered her the job.

Miss Takeda, who wished to be known simply as ‘Ming’, was a diminutive Japanese woman. She had arrived at their first meeting in her small Citroen, and he had been taken aback by her composure and businesslike manner. She was wearing a Chanel suit and was perfectly groomed, her glossy black hair cut in a heavy fringe reaching almost to her perfect almond eyes, and cropped short into her delicate white neck.

Ming offered to cook Alex dinner at her home. He found her workshop and apartment in a small, rundown cobbled street in Cannes. She gave him a calm, small bow as he entered her showroom. There were only two pieces of furniture on display, a small table and a single chair set against a cream silk wall and standing on a highly polished wooden floor. A tiny white vase contained an arrangement with a single flower.

Ming led Alex through to her workshop, where again the furnishing was sparse, with four girls working on designs at two trestle tables. The walls were plain with only two prints hanging, and there were stacks of fabric samples in fine wooden frames. Alex was shown designs, materials, and careful copies of original wall-hangings that Ming had drawn.

‘I am most grateful, Meester Barkley, that you have chosen my company. We are very small but I give you my word that the work will be done to a very high standard.’

She made tea, her movements quick yet unhurried, and placed before him perfect cups of the finest bone china he had ever seen. She watched him touch the table, bowed her head.

‘It is very beautiful, yes?’

Alex, sitting on a low cushion, nodded and sipped his tea.

‘The table is seventeenth-century Chinese. Many people think only of porcelain for that period but, you see, many pieces of Ming furniture were also made.’ Ming giggled as she said the word ‘Ming’, then whispered that it was not her real name, but one she had chosen for her work. ‘Many people in the trade simply call this period of furniture “Ming”.’

They continued their conversation while Alex watched her tiny hands prepare the most delicious supper of raw fish and vegetables. Ming gave him a book on seventeenth-century Chinese furniture, which as soon as he arrived home, he spent the rest of the night reading.

Alex grew increasingly enamoured of Ming. They travelled across France together in her little Citroen, attending auctions and antique fairs. They flew to Paris for the major ‘in house’ auctions, and he was guided by her taste and flawless eye for detail in everything. She would make him walk mile after mile through every fabric section of every store, never satisfied, until she found exactly the right texture, the right shade. Her own company set about hand-dyeing silks, and she employed six Japanese women to begin making up the drapes.

Alex was aware of the change in himself. Ming introduced him to the high priests of Paris couture, and under her influence, a hint here, a word there, he set about buying his own wardrobe. Hesitantly, he asked for her approval, and gratefully accepted her advice.

They were together every day, but at about ten o’clock in the evening she would always excuse herself and return to her own apartment if they were in Cannes, or to her hotel room if they were on the road. Alex was like a teenager, not knowing exactly how to take the first step towards changing their working relationship into a more personal one. The completion of the chateau drew closer day by day, and Alex was unable to sleep at night for thinking of ways he could keep Ming near him, close to him. The chateau was obviously her pride and joy, and she took such delight in finding each special piece of furniture, never making too much of the decor, allowing the majestic rooms to speak for themselves. He ached to kiss her, to hold her, but he was tongue-tied in her presence, flustered. If she was aware of his infatuation, she gave him no hint.

Ming and Alex stood together in the entrance hall of the chateau, surrounded by the smell of fresh paint, of polish, while the bright sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows.

‘Well, Alex, I think we have finished. Are you happy? Are you pleased?’

He adored the lilting sound of her voice, her accent when she spoke French. He made up his mind, it was now or never. ‘Ming, I have to talk with you, not about the house, something personal...’

He towered above her, and she raised her almond-shaped eyes to his, then lowered them. She bit her lip until it hurt. She had been unable to make him out; at first she had thought him clumsy, because of his desperate shyness, but then slowly she had realized that it was due to his schoolboy French. Then she had wondered if he was homosexual — they had stayed in hotels together, been in each other’s company day in, day out, and not once had he made a pass at her. She could not take the initiative herself to turn the relationship round. Her business depended on him, she couldn’t risk it. He was more than a meal ticket to her, he had taken her out of the red and into heavy black figures, and when they started to show the chateau in the glossy magazines as she intended, she knew her name would be made. She had done more than a magnificent job, she had surpassed herself.

Alex caught her tiny hand and she saw him flush. This was it, he was going to make a play for her at last. She gave him a demure smile.

‘I was wondering if we could have dinner together tonight? I have made a reservation in town.’

Ming had to stand on tiptoe to reach his lips. Her kiss was soft and swift, and he gasped.

‘I would like that so much. I shall miss the chateau, I shall miss you.’

Ming had never seen a man so pleased by a few simple words.

‘You will? Do you mean that?’

Ming laughed, and fell into step beside him along the marble hall. He was so childlike, and she knew he was unaware of the admiring glances he received from the many women they had met, it was as though he simply didn’t notice them. Ming paused, the hell with it... she held his arm and whispered.

‘Take me upstairs now, take me up there in your arms.’

For a moment Alex stood, nonplussed, then he swept her up into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, felt his pulses thudding. He carried her up the stairs and into the master bedroom suite with its drapes and the vast bed they had bought from an Austrian castle. As he laid her gently down, she reached up and took his face between her tiny hands, pulled him towards her. But before their lips met, they heard the sound of a car on the gravel drive below.

Edward was impressed, more than impressed; he was astonished. He gazed at the chateau through the window of the Rolls. ‘Mind you,’ he thought to himself, ‘by the rate of knots the cash has been flowing out of the account, I should be impressed.’ Now he could see where it had all gone.

He parked the hired Rolls and walked up the steps to the entrance, which was flanked by urns containing a profusion of budding flowers. He turned to survey the gardens. The orchards, the hedgerows, were all a riot of colour and richness, a wonder to the eye. It was hard to believe that it had been a wilderness less than eight months ago.

He was equally astonished at the interior. He strode from room to room, taking it all in. Nothing jarred — the furnishings, the fabrics, the colours, all blended so perfectly that he felt something akin to awe.

Alex was surprised to see his brother, but not as taken aback as Edward was by him. For a moment he did not recognize Alex, having seen him only fleetingly since the last plastic surgery he had undergone. There had been numerous operations until his face had been completely reshaped, and now Edward could see the full extent of the change. There were no scars or puffiness — he looked like a different man. Edward held him at arm’s length. ‘Jesus Christ, you look good, you look good.’ He inspected Alex’s face closely, shook his head. ‘My God, what a job they did on you... what a face! Now you’re my brother again... I love the gear, nice jacket.’

Edward touched his brother’s face, his cheek, then wrapped him in his arms. Alex seemed not quite at ease with his brother, a little withdrawn, and Edward picked it up immediately.

‘What’s the matter, something wrong?’

‘No, no, nothing wrong... well, tell me, what do you think of the place?’

He watched Edward as he wandered around, picking up objects, looking at the fabrics. He was pale, not tanned like Alex, but there was that strength to him, that confidence. He picked up an ornate vase, a very expensive one. ‘This a copy or the real thing?’

Alex smiled, amazed he wasn’t able to tell. ‘It’s real, Ming Dynasty. It has an unusual fault in the glaze that makes it special.’

‘You don’t say? Well, I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. What did that set us back?’

‘Twenty-five thousand.’

Edward nearly dropped the vase in shock. ‘Fucking hell, twenty-five grand and it’s got a bleedin’ fault... You’re sure you know what the hell you’re doing?’

‘Yes — it’s already increased in value.’

Alex began to feel annoyed as Edward continued his inspection. He noted that Edward’s cashmere coat had a small rip in the pocket and a stain down the front. Edward somehow looked old-fashioned, scruffy, his suede shoes in need of a brush.

It had been almost five years since they had been reunited. For the first three years Alex had undergone extensive plastic surgery. He had recuperated in Cannes, and grown accustomed to living in style, a style he had adapted to with ease. He now spoke fluent French, and had taken a year of elocution classes to, as his brother put it it, ‘Get rid of that bleedin’ East End tag.’

Edward and Alex had struck a deal, one that Alex could not really refuse. He had agreed to leave England, undergo surgery, and hand over the reins of the club and his other business interests to Edward. Alex had drawn up the contracts, selling out for one million. Edward had then placed a further two million in a Swiss bank account for Alex’s use. The chateau had been Edward’s idea on one of his infrequent visits. He had suggested that they buy it and renovate it, even teasing Alex that although he was having a well-earned holiday, there was always money to be made in property, and it would give Alex a goal. But Edward had not bargained for Alex’s enthusiasm, his dedication, or the vast expense of the refurbishment. He kept a watchful eye on the Geneva account, and had cabled even more money to Alex when asked. The more money he paid the less guilt he felt. But he was careful to make notes of every withdrawal, every transaction.

Ming could hear their voices as they strolled from room to room. She waited for what she deemed a respectable time before making an appearance. Then she entered the drawing room silently, standing just inside the ornate, arched doors. Alex watched his brother when he turned towards her. At times Edward’s resemblance to Freedom was truly unnerving — the eyes so dark, hair so black that it had a blue sheen to it.

‘Edward, this is Ming. Ming and I have been working closely on the whole project — in fact I couldn’t have done up the place without her.’

Edward smiled at her, but his eyes were expressionless. His French was not as good as Alex’s, and he spoke to her in English. ‘Done a great job, I’m very impressed... what about a small tour?’

He picked up the looks between the two of them as they led him around the chateau. They were very much a couple, pointing out one piece of furniture or another, explaining where it came from and exactly which period. Ming talked about the colour schemes, the wonderful carpets they had shipped in, and Edward said not a word. She could feel his eyes, taking stock of everything, taking special note of her. So this was the big brother she had heard Alex speak of. She could see how different they were, in manner as well as appearance, and she could feel the energy flowing from Edward, could sense his danger.

Alex grew quiet as they neared the end of their tour. He noticed the way Edward stood close to Ming, rested his hand on her shoulder when he asked about a painting, stepped back and laughed with her when she described the auction where they bought it.

At last the inspection was over, and Edward walked slowly down the great stairway. Halfway down, he stopped. ‘Well, we shall have to throw a party before we leave. I shall call London, start making arrangements... what about staff, have you anyone moving in yet?’

Alex hesitated. He had not hired anyone as yet, he had been taking care of himself. But Edward paid little heed to his reply, he was congratulating Ming again, but at the same time dismissing her. ‘Do you have transport?’

Ming smiled and said yes she did. Edward looked over at Alex.

‘Well, no doubt we will meet again... Alex and I have a lot to discuss, I am only here for a few days, then we return to London.’

Alex ushered Ming to her car. She knew he was angry, his face was set, but he smiled, said he would collect her for dinner later in the evening. He stood and watched her drive away before turning back to the chateau.

Edward was lounging on a silk sofa, his feet resting on frilled silk cushions. ‘We’ll have a good dinner, then we’ll go over all the papers you have to sign. I’ll be here for a couple of days, but I want to send them back by courier tomorrow, then I can relax. May take a dip later, I must say the pool looks very inviting.’ He paused, looked searchingly at Alex. ‘You look fit and well, Alex, really tanned, it suits you... She’s a cute little thing, isn’t she? Very talented, too...’

Alex clenched and unclenched his fist.

‘You’ll have the office next to mine, but I’ve not furnished it... after seeing your taste, well, I think you’d rather do it yourself. Tres impressed, old boy.’

‘Good, I’m glad you like it. I... well, I love the place, and it must be obvious to you that I’m very happy here — not just in the chateau, but in France. I like it, I like the people, and I’ve been thinking.’

‘Obviously. Well — go on.’

‘Well, I can’t just continue spending, this place will cost a fortune to run. But I’m sure I could open up the vineyards. And perhaps I could start buying some of the farm land surrounding the orchards, make it a productive business. We’ve already started — we’ll have a good crop, and the season’s not even begun.’

‘You don’t know anything about farming! Besides, I’ve made arrangements.’

Edward cursed himself silently for not coming to France more often. He should have guessed something like this would happen. He lit a Havana cigar, puffing slowly, taking his time and choosing his words carefully. ‘Trouble is, you’ve no option really.’

‘Whaddya mean by that?’

‘Watch it, Alex, the accent slipped there.’

‘Screw my fucking accent! What do you mean I’ve got no option? If I don’t want to come back to London, then I won’t... And would you use the bloody ashtray?’

Edward turned on him, his voice controlled, but spitting out the words. ‘Maybe I need you, maybe you’ve overspent out here — do you think I’m running the Bank of England? While you’ve been lazing about over here in the sun, I’ve been working my butt off for you — yeah, for you... Here — passport, birth certificate — Alex Stubbs is dead, Alex Barkley’s coming back to London with me.’

Alex didn’t even pick up the envelope. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘You owe me, Eddie, you gave me that cash, what is this? You want it back? Not a lot to pay for near ten years.’

Edward went to his brother, put his arms round him. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I’m needled now because... because, Alex, I want you with me. I want you to take a look at what I’ve been doing, that’s what I’ve been knocking myself out for since you’ve been in France. Between us, together, we can go places, you know? You haven’t even seen what I’m working with in London, and you’re going to step right in, right in next to me... You opt out of it, then it’ll all be worthless. Don’t run out on it just because of some Jap bitch.’

Alex pushed him away, had to get away from his arms. ‘Maybe I need her.’

Edward sighed, rubbed his fingers in his hair. He tried another tack. ‘You look closely at her, Alex my old son. She’s no twenty-two-year-old, she’s forty if she’s a day. Not quite the sort you want to settle down with and have a family.’

Alex was getting angrier, his fist itching to throw a punch.

Edward opened his briefcase. ‘Take a look at how deep I’m prepared to go for you, how far I’m prepared to go to get you out of that cheap shit-hole of a club you ran. You are free, no one can trace you... Alex Stubbs, the ex-con with the off-the-peg suits, is gone. Read it, bottom of second page.’

Alex opened the English newspaper, searched the columns, unsure even what he was looking for... The article was only a few lines long, but it was a nightmare: ‘GANGLAND KILLING SUSPECTED... Alex Stubbs, a Mayfair club owner, was found burnt to death in his Jaguar early this morning. Police suspect...’ The print blurred, and Alex couldn’t read any more. He swallowed, stammered, ‘What the hell is this, for Chrissake?’

‘Like I said, Alex Stubbs is dead. You’ve a new passport, new birth certificate — you come back as Alex Barkley. I’m already making waves — we’ve got a property business, investment company, plus that old club you ran... I didn’t sell it, you only had a short lease, so I bought the whole building. We’ll open a club, it’ll be the best in London — gambling, dining, cabaret... I’ve already sunk over two and a half hundred grand in it, going too fast for you, am I? Whichever way you want to look at it, the jam is spreading very thick and fast. Going to make you rich, brother, richer than you ever dreamed.’

Alex’s mouth was dry, his mind reeled. Edward leaned back on the sofa and laughed. ‘I’ve been over all your old accounts, and you are good. As I said, I need you.’ He sprang to his feet, bursting with excitement, and strode around the room. ‘I want this place in every magazine, every glossy from Paris Match to Vogue, Elle, you name it, and then we’ll throw a coming-out party, for you, for me. We’ll get the Rainiers, the Windsors, big names, have them all here kissing our hands, and then, brother, we are in, all you need is the social acceptance... Alex? Heyyy, buddy...’

Alex sighed and rested his hand on the Louis XIV marble-topped table. ‘It’s maybe what you want, but...’

Edward snapped, his face flushed with anger, ‘Can’t you see what I’m offering? Remember Ma, her dreams? Not just for me, but for you. We’re going to be everything she ever wanted, and more. If you need time to think about it, fine. But I won’t wait long, and don’t think this came cheap.’ He held out the newspaper, shoved it under his brother’s nose. His voice dropped almost to a whisper, ‘You had a pretty poor funeral, old son — two bouncers and a wreath of friggin’ yellow roses from a tart... that what you want? You make your mind up.’

Edward slammed out of the chateau, and Alex heard the Rolls churning up the gravel. He walked from room to room, and as he passed through the bedroom he caught his reflection in the long mirrors. He stopped, stared, then walked closer and looked at himself. He did look different, his hair bleached almost white by the sun, his tan, his new face. He put out his hand and touched his image in the mirror. It was true, Alex Stubbs was dead.

Ming knew it would be Edward, she just knew it. He walked straight in, straight through to her sparse, white sitting room.

‘Okay, I’ll give it to you straight — I think you are good, and I intend making the chateau famous. I will get every major glossy magazine to cover it, that means you will benefit. I will promote you, make you, but I want a cut...’

Ming sat demurely in the high-backed, polished wood chair. Edward lit a cigarette, carefully placed it into the gold holder. ‘I have companies in England, office blocks, properties. I also want to branch out in the States, more offices... I want you to do the interior design for them all... have to change your name, but I’ll back you to the hilt.’

Her hands folded, she waited for him to finish. Edward flicked ash off his cigarette, leaned forward and continued, ‘I’ll make you a rich woman, and a famous one... I detected traces of an American accent, you educated in America? What happened? Had to run for it when your lot hit Pearl Harbor?’

Ming caught her breath — she detested him, he was even sharper than she had given him credit for. He was silent, watching, waiting for her to answer. ‘I was educated in America, my family sent me over to finish my studies there... Pearl Harbor really has very little to do with either myself or my work... I am residing in France because I wish to.’

Edward stood up and laughed, stubbed out his cigarette in a crystal bowl. Before she could say anything he was walking up the narrow staircase to her workshop. He lounged in the doorway. ‘You know how much the chateau cost to refurbish, sweetheart? Did you think for one moment I didn’t have your credentials checked out? I know all there is to know about you, and I also know you were in debt up to your little Japanese neck in the States. You were left high and dry with no cash to finish your so-called studies. You were brought over to Cannes by a French pimp, dumped by him, then you worked in a couple of massage parlours. You have a stream of relatives coming in illegally to work for you, cheap labour... Don’t mess around, don’t think I am as dumb a bastard as my brother — do you want to be rich or not, that’s all you have to think about.’

Ming gasped. She was shaking with rage and humiliation. Her family was impoverished, but her father was a samurai. They had no knowledge of her troubles, and to hear Edward speak in such a manner made her want to kill him. But she showed not a flicker of her thoughts or emotions on her face, which remained set and impassive.

‘I will retain the name “Ming”, I think it is very simple and very easy to remember. The Americans like that, plus I can use the Ming Dynasty logo.’

Edward threw back his head and laughed. He pinched her chin between his fingers, looked down into her face. ‘You’re hungry for it, aren’t you? Takes one to know one... There is just one other thing. I want you to stay away from Alex — I’ll give you a few thousand now, pack up and leave France for a short holiday until I get him back to London. Then I’ll start all the arrangements for you to move to New York. I’ll have my lawyer send over the contracts.’

Edward was congratulating himself on how he had manipulated Ming. He knew instinctively that ‘Little Lotus Flower’ would be a good investment. He almost forgot to drive on the right-hand side of the road, and only just swerved back in time as an Aston Martin roared past with its horn blaring. The white Aston was being driven far too fast, and he could hear the screeching of rubber as it disappeared from view round a bend.

Harriet swore as she spun the wheel — some stupid old dodderer hogging the road. She slowed down considerably as the road narrowed and made a sharp turn on to a farm track.

Pierre Rochal turned on the outside lights of the barn as Harriet drew up. He was wearing an old tee-shirt and shorts, and was deeply tanned. He was in the process of converting the barn into a summer residence. The farm was a further two miles up the track.

Harriet sang out, ‘Bonjour, amigo!’ She hopped out and ran along a plank to fling her arms around him. He kissed her lightly, then they began to unload the boot of the car. Harriet filled her arms with the groceries while Pierre lifted out the paint. He looked at the label. ‘Yellow? Yellow?’

‘Oh, don’t you like it? I thought it would be lovely... like daffodils. Can you imagine turning into the lane and seeing our barn, like one enormous daffodil?’

Pierre smiled. If she had bought bright pink he wouldn’t have cared. To see her so happy and relaxed was enough, and the fact that she said ‘our’ barn made up for the terrible choice of paint. He watched her searching for the corkscrew, and leaned against the stained pine kitchen door. ‘Second drawer down, we celebrating?’

‘Yep. It’s only plonk, and look — candles! We can eat on the planks outside. I am going to cook — now don’t pull a face, I have to practise. A doctor’s wife needs to be able to run a smooth ship.’

Pierre wrapped his arms around her, kissed her neck. ‘Am I to take it that the answer, at long last, is “yes”?’

Harriet blushed and nodded. Then she delved into her grocery bag and held up a record. ‘Plus, mon cher, I shall be able to speak your lingo...’

Pierre laughed. The fact that he didn’t even have a record player in the barn had obviously escaped Harriet’s attention. She insisted he sit outside until she had prepared dinner, and he carried the candles with him. He arranged some orange boxes to sit on, while she sang at the top of her voice.

He had first met Harriet on the ski slopes in Switzerland. Met her? He chuckled as he remembered how they had collided head on, Harriet falling at his feet in a tangle of skis. At that time he had no idea she was one of the patients in his father’s clinic. They had spent the day together, and by the evening he was besotted.

There had been bitter opposition from his father, of course. Harriet’s emotional stability was erratic, and over the years she had spent a considerable time in various clinics. However, Pierre’s father could not help but see the good effect the relationship was having on his patient. His son’s happiness was eventually what persuaded him to accept the situation, but he made sure that Pierre knew Harriet’s problems in detail, giving him access to her records. Although Pierre was a doctor, not a psychiatrist, he was fully aware of Harriet’s condition. His obvious love and care was touching to see, and under his influence she had been on an even keel for a considerable time.

Harriet had only once discussed her illness with him — using it as an excuse to refuse Pierre’s offer of marriage for almost a year. She had wanted him to be very sure, to ‘know what he was taking on’, as she put it. Pierre did know, and it seemed, if possible, to make his love for her even stronger. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that she made him jump as she appeared at the door.

‘Would the affluent Parisian docteur mind if his steak was rather charred?’

Pierre held out his hand and she went to him. She smelt of frying, and her hair was standing up on end.

He asked, ‘Have I told you today how much I love you?’

She laughed and sat on his knee. He wound a piece of silver paper around her engagement finger, and she held up her hand to admire it.

‘Tomorrow we’ll drive into town and choose a ring.’

‘No — this is just perfect... this place is perfect, you are perfect.’

Pierre smelt the steaks burning, and rushed into the kitchen.

Caught in candlelight, the silver paper glittered. A small voice in Harriet’s head whispered, ‘Look, Auntie Mae, look at his hands, and his feet — each toe is just perfect.’

Harriet watched Pierre through the open window. He was tossing the salad expertly, and she sighed. She did love him, she cared for him so much, and he was so understanding. Unconsciously she unwound the silver paper from her fingers and rolled it into a tiny ball.

Alex heard Edward’s car, and walked down the stairs as the front door banged open. Alex winced as the delicate stained glass shuddered.

‘You’ve had a few calls from London — I’ve left a note of them on your bed. You’re in the west wing — I won’t be late, but don’t wait up.’

‘My, my, you look very smart — like the suit. What’s the material?’

‘Linen — it’s made locally. See you in the morning.’

Edward watched Alex drive away. He knew he was on his way to Miss Takeda, and he chuckled. He doubted if Alex would ever know about his ‘Lotus Flower’. He had not told Ming just how far he had delved into her affairs, or that he knew how much money she had creamed off the refurbishing of the chateau into her own pocket. She was as devious as Edward, and it amused him, but he reckoned that Alex would be better out of the grasp of her tiny, white hands.

When Alex arrived he found Ming wrapped in a floating white kimono. She held the door open a fraction, then bowed slightly as he stepped in. He had bought a bunch of roses from a flower seller in the town, and Ming held them close to her chest as she led him into her sitting room. She fetched a white vase and filled it with water, began to arrange each bloom with care.

‘Well, you met my brother, what do you think of him?’

‘He is very charming.’

‘I wouldn’t describe him as that.’

Alex wanted her to look at him, wanted her to say something, but still she attended to the flowers with studied concentration. Alex stood close to her. Suddenly he felt so shy, so uncomfortable. Gently, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She touched his hand, brushed her cheek against it. He lifted her into his arms and held her tightly.

‘Be my wife? Will you? Will you marry me?’

He could feel her shaking, and he tilted her chin up to look into her face. She moved away from him, gesturing for him to sit down — not close, a little apart from her.

She told Alex the truth about herself. She left out nothing, even the time she had spent in the ‘massage parlours’. When she had finished, she sat with her head bowed, tears streaming down her face.

Alex hesitated for a moment, then he said, ‘I had better tell you about me.’ And piece by piece he told his story, for the first time in all the years. It came out without violence, without hatred. He told it simply, his voice low, and Ming was silent throughout. Alex’s voice only faltered when he described the death of his father, Freedom.

‘I loved him, I loved him so... but, then, Edward...’

Ming could feel his pain, knew instinctively not to speak. Alex told her of his years in prison, and as he talked the hatred of all those years eased from him, little by little. At one point he smiled at her — at long last someone else knew, knew what he had been through, what he had done. He even told her about the surgery on his face, he left nothing out, as if once he had begun he was unable to stop. At the end he was drained, empty, and he sighed. It was over.

They both sat as if stripped naked, the void between them a vast distance neither of them knew how to span. Suddenly Ming put out her tiny white hand, and there was no void, no more emptiness between them, they were in each other’s arms. While they held each other tightly, Ming told Alex of Edward’s visit. She saw the flash of rage in his eyes, and she held him, calmed him. ‘Listen to me, I want to be your wife, but I want everything he offered me, too. I want what he offered, do you understand?’

Alex did understand, because he too wanted, or at least needed, to try to achieve everything Edward had dangled before him.

‘We can do whatever we want, there’s no need for us to be separated...’

Ming laughed softly, hugged him close. She knew Edward would stand between them.

‘In a way I think he’s scared of me, he wants you all to himself. Well, let him think he has you. We can wait until the time is right. Perhaps it will be better if he thinks he has succeeded in separating us.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so... You see, I love you, I love you, Alex.’

Alex blushed beneath his tan. He tried to say what he felt, but he wanted to leave, it was crazy. More than he wanted to stay, he wanted to leave. Uppermost in his mind was the fact that he had beaten Edward at his own game.

Ming was disturbed that Alex didn’t make love to her. She watched him from her workshop window as he hurried away, and remained standing there long after the car had gone. Slowly, the armour Ming had carefully constructed around herself cracked. She had let the only man she had ever cared for walk out of her life. She looked around her workroom, the bales of material, the stacks of fabric samples. Why hadn’t she taken him to her bed, why? Almost unaware of what she was doing, she began to draw on a large sheet of paper. She drew the Ming logo, then pressed the pen over and over the drawing until the paper began to tear... Ming... Ming... Ming... It would not be long before that simple logo, and her name, was known worldwide.

Edward heard Alex’s arrival home, heard him moving around below, and was surprised when he walked into the bedroom. He was carrying a bottle of Krug champagne and two glasses, and Edward again marvelled at the change in him. As Alex uncorked the bottle with a single practised movement, he looked so handsome, so sophisticated. He sat on Edward’s bed. ‘Ming has disappeared. I was upset at first... now, well... I’ve been thinking over everything you said, and I am ready to return to England, so we had better begin arranging this “coming-out” party... Cheers.’

Edward toasted his brother in the champagne, which was chilled to exactly the right temperature. He patted the pillow beside him. ‘I’ve already started, take a look at the “A” list.’

Alex lay next to Edward on the vast double bed, their heads resting on frilled white Victorian pillowslips. They laughed as they went over the names, made references to childhood events long forgotten, until they both drifted off to sleep, side by side. In his sleep Edward turned, and his arm rested across Alex’s body as if they were lovers.