Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Edward had noticed the Volkswagen from the previous night had already departed. He began to feel uneasy. He looked at Skye, puzzled, and asked why he didn’t go to the British Consul if he was a British subject. Skye stared at him. ‘Someone — a woman named Julia — also has my birth certificate, so I can’t go. I’m trapped here until I get it back.’

Edward told him he could send away to Somerset House, they would forward a copy of his birth certificate. Skye shook his head at Edward’s stupidity and spoke coldly, quietly. ‘I’m black, you stupid bastard. My father was black, a political embarrassment, he was one of the highest members of the banned African National Congress...’

Edward realized that Skye was an even more fortunate find than he had believed possible.

‘My mother was very young, her family dripping with fucking coalmines, and she got herself knocked up by a bloody black houseboy. Needless to say, I was kept very much in the dark, haw haw haw, but I was well educated and although I was shipped about somewhat, things weren’t too bad. Anyway, she got herself married, and, naturally, the husband doesn’t have the slightest knowledge of moi.’ He fell silent for a moment, sipping his wine.

Edward noticed the foot-twitching had stopped, and Skye appeared very still. He had a haunted look, and he was distant, but he continued. ‘So, buddy boy, that’s Skye Duval for you. Now you know — I have entrusted you with my life.’

Edward didn’t reply, but Skye appeared to read his thoughts. ‘It’s imperative, you know, if two people are doing a con trick, that they trust each other, have something on each other. You even attempt your little scam without me and I’ll know. Understand me, man?’

At his hotel later in the morning, Edward looked through the newspaper. He glanced only fleetingly at the front page, then flipped back to it. There was a photograph and he recognized the girl’s face. The article was by no means prominent, just a small bulletin, but the girl had been arrested with her black lover. There was no name to the article, but Edward knew it had to have something to do with Skye. He was also very aware of the importance of the information he had just gained. If he were to tip off the blacks about Skye Duval’s secrets, the man would be a walking target. This made Edward think hard. Why had Duval opened up to him? Was it simply, as he had said, trust? Or had he in actual fact bitten much harder on Edward’s offer than he had thought? Edward concluded that Skye was indeed a manipulator, and even though he joked about it, he would be in the scam whether Edward wanted him or not.

Edward knew he had Skye when they met that evening. The girl in the newspaper had hanged herself. Yet another death lay at Skye’s feet and he was in a nasty, belligerent mood. ‘Get me out of this shit-hole country, man, before I put my head in a noose like everyone else. A voice keeps whispering louder and louder, “You’re black, Skye Duval, you’re a fucking black.” And you know what? I wanna be black. The whites here are made of vomit, one day they will all spew their guts out and we will rise up and swamp them.’

Edward knew he had to get Skye on to a different subject, so he asked about the woman called Julia.

‘This woman, the one holding your birth certificate, is there any way we can get to her? If we have that you’ll be off the hook.’

Skye shrugged, and said she kept it locked in her safe.

‘At her home? Couldn’t we get it somehow?’

Skye had been sceptical about Edward, but now he looked at him with interest. Even more so when Edward suggested that the two of them together could surely break into the woman’s safe. Skye went to telephone Julia and then returned to the table. ‘She’ll see me tonight... we can at least try.’

Julia Keevy was overweight, and wore her dyed blonde hair in a tight, lacquered set. She wore rings on every finger, and a kaftan to hide the rolls of fat drooping from her body. Her small eyes were like speckled duck’s eggs, and her skin had been exposed to the sun for so many years that it was as wrinkled as a walnut. She was grotesque, welcoming Skye with a glossy, thickly lipsticked smile. She had dismissed her servants for the night, and had the champagne on ice.

Edward waited outside. Skye had described the exact layout of the low, sprawling bungalow. Skye would open the back door, and had warned Edward to be careful of the screen door squeaking.

He moved stealthily into the kitchen, banged his shin on the fridge and held his breath. Had she heard? He could hear a deep, throaty, gin-sodden laugh from the bedroom. He slipped into the dining area, took stock of the rooms, and eventually found the lounge.

The safe was like a vault, with a heavy combination lock. He scratched his head — no way could he open it — and jumped as Skye appeared silently beside him.

‘We’ll never open the bloody thing, look at it.’

Skye gritted his teeth and swore, squinted at the numbers.

‘Baby, what you doing? Skye, honey, what you doing?’

Skye muttered to Edward to keep still, they had come this far and he was not going to give up. He walked to the bedroom, smiling sweetly as he carried the bottle towards the beached whale on the bed. ‘Sorry, the first one I took out wasn’t chilled enough, just let me open it...’

When Skye popped the cork out of the bottle with a loud bang, Edward nearly had a heart attack in the next room. Suddenly Skye went crazy. He leapt on top of her, ramming the neck of the champagne bottle into her mouth so hard that she gurgled and flayed the air with her hands. He sat on top of her and pushed the bottle to the back of her throat.

‘What’s the combination of the safe, you fat bitch? The combination — now!’

She tried to fight him off but she was choking, the bottle being forced further and further to the back of her throat. The champagne frothed and bubbled down her chins and her eyes bulged, then she flopped. Her body went limp, and a horrid gurgling began in her throat. Skye removed the bottle and slapped her face from side to side.

Edward was searching the desk when Skye appeared with a gun in his hand. He walked to the safe and blasted at the lock, bullet after bullet.

‘Jesus, you crazy? For Chrissake...’

Letting the gun fall to his side, Skye stared as the safe door swung open. He began to hurl the contents out. Bundles of bank notes fell around his feet as he scrabbled and searched. He checked inside envelopes and folders. ‘Where is it? Where the fuck is it? The bitch, the bitch!’

Edward stood frozen at the window — what if someone had heard the gunshots? There was silence, ominous, but it gave Edward confidence that no one had heard. He went into the bedroom, leaving Skye searching like a madman. The scene that met his eyes made him want to vomit — the grotesque sight of Julia on the bed, mouth wide open, eyes popping out of her head. The sheets and body dripping with champagne. He shouted to Skye, ‘Get in there and clean the bottle and glasses, your prints’ll be all over the bloody room. I’ll look for it, go on, move, those shots could bring the law any minute.’

Edward filled a carrier bag with jewels and cash, then dragged Skye out. They left by the back way, wiped the door, then ran across the gardens and down two streets to the car. This time Edward drove, slowly and carefully, so as not to attract attention.

They returned to Skye’s bungalow and Edward tipped the contents of the carrier bag on the bed. There was at least fifteen thousand in cash, but the jewels and the gold bangles were worth, he knew, at least twenty to thirty thousand more. He examined Skye’s birth certificate and slipped it into his pocket.

The newspaper reported that Julia’s houseboy had been arrested and charged with her murder. The motive for the killing was obviously robbery.