‘Not by my hand, boss,’ Sal says quickly, shifting on his feet. ‘I was lucky to get out alive.’
‘What were you doing inside?’
I narrow my eyes at him, watching the slight twitch in his jaw. He doesn’t like the way this conversation is headed.
‘It was the Thompsons,’ he replies. ‘She kidnapped Ritchie, and they tracked her down.’
‘And?’
‘Ritchie’s dead.’
The man on the phone barely reacts. ‘I couldn’t give a rat’s about him. What about her?’
Sal glances my way, and catches me watching. He steps closer, plucks the cigarette from my mouth and takes a long drag like it might steady him.
‘Still alive.’
‘Do I need to come out and deal with this myself, Sal?’
Sal freezes. His fingers tighten around the phone. ‘No, boss!’ He exhales slowly.
‘Are you smoking?’ the caller barks.
The cigarette burns between his fingers. ‘No, boss, I-I can barely…’ Sal stammers, while looking around like the night might offer him an escape.
‘Sal?’
‘Sorry, boss, losing signal.’ Then Sal hangs up. I watch him, still waiting.
‘You’re in deep, aren’t you?’
He exhales slowly again, shaking his head. ‘Deeper than you, sweetheart.’
He drops down beside me, the dry hay rustling under his weight. His breath is unsteady and ragged, half exhaustion, half in disbelief. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
‘You saved my life,’ I exhale, the words slipping out before I can dress them in something less vulnerable.
‘Don’t remind me,’ he groans, dragging a hand down his face, like he’s trying to forget the last ten minutes.
I reach into my rucksack, fingers curling around the still-cold glass, and pull out the bottle of whiskey with a dramatic flourish. ‘Tada!’ I say, grinning through the dirt on my face. ‘And that’s worth celebrating.’
He cracks one eye open, the corner of his mouth twitching. ‘You think this is funny?’ his voice is rough, edged with more than frustration. ‘You could have been killed.Wecould have been killed.’ His words hang in the smoky air, heavy with the reality that we/I haven’t fully let in. He leans in. ‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ he says, his tone flat. ‘The only thing stopping you and death becoming one is me.’
‘Oh the irony,’ I laugh.
For a moment, I just stare at him, pulling another drag from the cigarette I’ve just stolen from him. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, just watches. I shift, fingers tightening around the whiskey bottle. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful? Because I’m not feeling like a fucking lottery winner, right now.’
Sal shakes his head.
I scoff. ‘Contrary to belief, my lifelong dream hadn’t been to be hoisted upside down and finger-fucked by a man old enough to be my father, and then have my home blown up.’
‘Hang on a second. I’m not that old and you’re certainly not that young.’
‘Whatever, pops,’ I say, flashing him a toothy grin.
‘Besides, I’m not the pretender here, Ms Marguerite Dubois.’
My smile falters – just barely. The name tasting foreign. ‘Oh, yeah,’ I say, lightly, but my pulse is anything but steady. ‘You just lied to your boss. I bet he doesn’t know what a freak between the sheets you are.’
