20
The small attic room has a sloping ceiling, a window and a skylight. It reminds Holly of her last foster home, where she had slept on a bed between steamer trunks full of old paintings and boxes of self-help books. The house is gone now. She burnt it down. The flames were fifty feet high. Old books and oil paints are good fuel. Holly had stood on the far side of the road and watched the great arcs of water being poured on the burning house, marveling at how the moisture evaporated in the heat, creating clouds of steam.
Some people put out fires, other people start them and the rest watch blissfully from the perimeter with flames dancing in their eyes. That’s the power of the match. Struck against the side of a box, balanced between two fingers, given the right fuel, it can raze a house or fell a forest. Rome burned. So did Dresden. Holly’s world burned that night.
She was sent to a psych ward and then to a children’s home where she spent two years. When she turned eighteen she no longer had to answer to judges and social workers. She was free, but freedom didn’t come with a safety net. That’s why Zac was so important. Darling Zac.
Holly grips the edge of the mattress and feels her throat begin to close. Maybe this is what grief feels like. Suffocating. Paralyzing.
If Zac were here, he would tell her to cup her hands over her mouth and breathe deeply. Count slowly. Relax. After a time the anxiety passes. She pushes back the bedclothes and begins searching through the wardrobe, choosing clothes: jeans, a plaid shirt, a scarf, a leather satchel…
Ruiz is downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper.
“You found some clothes.”
Holly nods. “Is it OK if I take this?” She holds up the satchel.
“Sure. You want breakfast? There is cereal, bread, eggs, bacon…”
“I don’t eat bacon.”
“Eggs then?”
She doesn’t answer.
Sitting opposite him, she stares at the back of his newspaper without reading the words. He pours tea and spoons sugar. Stirs. The spoon sounds loud against the rim of the cup. Without warning, Holly begins to speak.
“Were you really a copper?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
“It gave me up.”
“You got fired?”
“I got retired.”
Holly has tied her hair up in a scarf, which makes her look like a 1940s aircraft worker.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“Well it doesn’t happen very often. And people who are nice to me usually end up leaving or dying.”
“Who else has died?”
“My brother… my parents.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“What happened to them?”
Holly shakes her head and changes direction. “I knew a guy at school, Scott Kernohan. He got hit by a train.” She changes direction again. “How did your wife die?”
“Cancer.”
“Did you remarry?”
“Twice.”
Holly looks at a framed montage of family photographs on the wall beside the fridge. Snapshots of weddings, dinners, holidays, children’s concerts, birthday celebrations, anniversaries.
“When is your daughter getting married?”
“On Saturday.”
“I saw the invitation.”
“When you were robbing me?”
Holly lets the comment slide. “Do you like the guy she’s marrying?”
“Sure.”
She smiles wryly.
“What’s that look for?”
“You’re lying.” She points to a photograph on the wall. “Is that him?”
“No, that’s my son Michael.”
“He’s cute.”
“He’s in Barbados.”
“But he’s coming home for the wedding, right?”
“We hope so.”
Holly loses interest and begins opening cupboards. Ruiz can’t concentrate on his newspaper because he wants to watch her. She opens a box of cereal and eats with her hand.
“I have bowls.”
“It’s OK.”
He tries to read, but can feel her eyes upon him. Silence until he can stand it no more. He folds the newspaper. “Why do you rob people?”
“To pay the rent.”
“You couldn’t find another way?”
“I’m sure you’re going to give me a list.”
“Whoever killed Zac was looking for something.”
“You don’t know that.”
Holly takes another handful of cereal.
“Who did you rob?”
“Rich horny guys, businessmen, suits, married, middle-aged.”
“How many?”
“Nine, maybe ten,” she says defensively. “We didn’t do it all the time-just when we needed the rent. Zac wasn’t getting his army pension. They lost his paperwork.”
“I need names and addresses of everyone you robbed.”
“Oh, yeah, I kept them on speed dial.”
Sarcasm scratches her pretty face.
“What did you take?”
“Phones, cameras, computers, jewelry-stuff we could carry.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Fenced it.”
“Who with?”
Holly hesitates. “I’m not a grass.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“That’s another lie.”
“What is it with you? You keep calling people liars.”
“I can tell.”
“Sure.”
“It’s true.” Holly is staring into her mug as if reading the dregs. Tired. Wan. Resigned to being disbelieved. Ruiz thinks of his mother. Before her mind was scattered by dementia, Daj would often talk of people having “gifts” or a “third eye,” seeing things that other people don’t. A gypsy gift and a gypsy curse have little to differentiate them.
“Test me,” says Holly.
“How?”
“Tell me something true or false. Anything.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“OK, don’t do it.” Holly shrugs and pushes back her chair.
Ruiz reaches into his pocket and closes his fist.
“OK, what’s in my hand?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have a coin. Do you know which one?”
“No.”
“It’s a fifty-pence piece.”
“No it’s not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re lying.”
“What if I told you it was twenty pence?”
“You’d be a liar.”
“What about a pound?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Ruiz uncurls his fingers. The pound coin lies flat in his palm.
“Lucky guess.”
“If you say so.”
She’s challenging him. Ruiz knows he should let the subject go, but her cockiness irritates him.
“Let’s do it again.”
“Only if we play for money. I get a pound for every time I’m right.”
“OK.”
Ruiz takes a moment to plan his tactics.
“I’m going to tell you five things. Tell me which ones are true.”
“That’s five pounds.”
Holly sits opposite him, looking at his face.
“I was once arrested on suspicion of murder.”
“Wow, that’s a bummer.”
“You think it’s true?”
“Yes.”
“My middle name is William?”
“No.”
“My middle name is Yanko?”
“What sort of name is that?”
“Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“I have a brother but he doesn’t live in London.”
She hesitates. “That’s two facts.”
“So what?”
“He doesn’t live in London.”
“Are you saying I don’t have a brother?”
“No, but there’s something wrong…” Holly taps the table with her finger, thinking of the possibilities. “Is he alive?”
Ruiz’s heart seems to lurch sideways in his chest. How could she possibly know that?
“This is ridiculous. I don’t want to play anymore.”
She holds out her hand. “I want my five pounds.”
How can she… it’s impossible… is he that transparent? Then he remembers that Holly has been in his house. She looked through his things. There are photo albums upstairs, marriage and birth certificates, pictures of Claire and Michael, Laura’s letters…
“You really are a piece of work,” he says, glaring at her, pushing up from the table.