The Ladies Killing Circle Anthology 4-Book Bundle. Barbara Fradkin
listening to his snoring and to the pounding of my heart. Two million dollars in diamonds lay in a bag only a metre from my feet. I could pack my stuff, steal half of them—I wouldn’t leave him with nothing—and be back in London before he even woke up. Then I could deck myself in Boss leather and surround myself with drooling girls to my heart’s content.
Oh, the temptation.
By some miracle, the next day dawned sunny and Patrick awoke in fine spirits again. It was the darkness that seemed to haunt him, and he emerged from the shower singing. He opened his suitcase and handed me a shirt. Raw silk with an Armani label.
“Here, I know you love this stuff. I’ll trade it for your Our Lady Peace shirt.”
I took the Armani without protest. I suspected he’d never even heard of the Canadian rock band and just wanted to slum it for a while, but I was quite happy to play king for another day.
To complete the image, I wore his Rockports again, and, with a chuckle, he donned my discount equivalent. Patrick had calculated that the hike along the coast would take us all day, so he sent me down to ask the landlady for a picnic lunch.
When I returned, Patrick had our daypacks ready and he dangled the Jag’s keys in front of me. “Want to try it?”
I gaped. “On these roads? On the wrong side?”
“Where we’re going, the roads are only one lane wide. Come on, I know you’re dying to.”
The car engine caught on the first try. My heart raced. I gave a jaunty wave to the landlady pruning her roses and accelerated down the highway. Beneath my hands, the car throbbed like a sexy woman. It was magic, as tempting as the diamonds sitting in the little bag by my side. Patrick didn’t understand the seductive lure of his life.
He spread the map out and directed me through a maze of little roads, and when we finally broke through the hedgerows, we found ourselves in a field of parked cars. Ahead of us stretched a rugged expanse of red rock, heather and coarse scrub, cropped close by wandering sheep and ponies. In a jagged inlet, I could just glimpse the plunging drop and the jets of white foam below. My stomach lurched.
Patrick jumped out and pulled our daypacks from the car. The wind in his hair and the scent of roiling surf seemed to give him energy. Tossing his bag over his shoulder, he set off towards the cliff top, where I could just make out a narrow path meandering along the edge.
I gave the car one last pat, pocketed the keys, and went after him. Once I’d found my feet on the rocky soil and learned to look ahead into the distance rather than over the edge, I relaxed enough to enjoy the hike. Gulls wheeled overhead, and Patrick enthusiastically pointed out the puffins and other shore birds perched on ledges in the cliff face. I could never tell one bird from another but accepted Patrick’s word that we were witnessing a rare sight.
By noon, we had reached the tip of the peninsula, where we could see out over the water to a large island off the shore. The cliff top was rounded and fell away to outcroppings of rock further down. Patrick turned off the main path and called up to me.
“Come on, there’s a natural ledge down here. We can eat our lunch and watch the birds.”
I hesitated before beginning to pick my way down the slope. The grass was thick and held my sandals well, but even so, my heart was pounding by the time I reached the ledge. Patrick cracked open a beer and peered out over the ocean, which churned and seethed like something alive.
“Between here and the island, that’s Jack Sound, one of the most treacherous stretches of water along the coast. The tides funnel into the narrows at great speed and suck everything in with them. Boats trying to get through are dashed against the rocks. God, look at the power of that water!”
His word was good enough for me. I wasn’t anxious to look over the edge. But after lunch, Patrick studied the cliff below and began very slowly to pick his way down. Far below him, the black ocean threw itself against the rocks, shooting plumes of foam high into the air.
“Awesome!” Patrick shouted over the roar. “Come on! It gives you such a rush!”
“No thanks.” I felt foolish, a prisoner of my fear. When I was twelve, I’d stood on a high diving board, trembling and crying while Adolf taunted me from below. I’d backed down, but his word “pissypants” had rung in my ears for years. I studied the slope. Patrick stood on another ledge, safe and without fear. He was beckoning. Not taunting me, but eager to share his joy. Which was rare, I knew.
I left our packs on the ledge and began to inch my way down the slope. My hands clutched at passing sedge as stones slipped beneath my feet. My legs quivered from the strain, but gradually I drew nearer till I stood at his side. His eyes danced as he pointed along the cliff to our left.
“See that little cave? I think there’s a bird’s nest inside. If we go along this little ledge, I bet we can see inside.”
“Along that ledge? Are you crazy?” The ledge was barely two feet wide and wet with spray from the surf below.
Patrick eyed me closely. “You’re afraid of heights, aren’t you?”
“No, I—I just don’t go into orgasms over some old bird.”
“Just follow me, and put your feet exactly where I do. I promise you’ll be fine.”
He set out before I could object, and I stood frozen, watching him pick his way slowly along the cliff, gripping the jagged rock with his hand to steady himself. My hands turned clammy, and the surf pounded in my ears.
Patrick turned. “It’s a chough! And I think there may be eggs!”
In his excitement, his foot slipped on the wet ledge, and he fell to his knees. For an instant I thought he’d plunge to his death, but then he grabbed the cliff face and crouched motionless on the ledge.
“Patrick?” His voice was frail against the roar of the surf. “I twisted my ankle. Help.”
Help! He had to be kidding. He was stuck on a flimsy ledge above a precipice, inches from death. What good would two of us be, inches from death? I’d have to go for help.
I thought of the diamonds and the Jag waiting above. Peered at the sea below…
“Help,” came his voice again, even weaker. I looked down at his rigid frame, swore, and began to make my way down towards him. Sliding one foot at a time, testing each toehold, inching my hands over the rock face, wrapping my fingers around each tiny knob. I didn’t look down. I didn’t even look ahead to Patrick’s face. I stared at the wall and pressed its rough surface against my cheek. After an eternity, I reached him.
“I just need to lean on your arm,” he said. “Then I can walk without putting much weight on it.”
I braced myself and extended my arm so he could pull himself up.
“Ready?” His voice was tense.
I risked a nod. Patrick grabbed my arm and pulled hard. Instantly I was thrown off balance, my foot slipped and I felt myself going over the edge. In that instant, I caught a glimpse of Patrick’s face, alight with triumph as he tried to wrench himself free.
Shock jolted through me. On blind instinct I clutched at him, every inch of me fighting to survive. My free hand caught a jagged tooth of rock and my feet found a toehold on the wall beneath the ledge. I clutched Patrick’s arm and pulled for my life. Suddenly his body shifted and slithered over the edge. Pain shot through my arm as he fell, held only by my hand clamped to his wrist.
He flailed about, vainly seeking a grip on the rock. His face, upturned to me, was white as death, and his eyes bulged.
“God, Patrick, help me!” he gasped.
I hung on despite the pain screaming through my fingers. Had he really tried to push me off? Had I really seen triumph in his eyes? Why? And if so, why should I save him? I could just open my fingers and let him plummet to certain death on the rocks below. It would be so easy.
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