The Faithless - Martina Cole [48]
Cynthia smiled. ‘I know you do, mate. I know you do.’ She kissed her daughter’s brow then and, making sure the bed was tidy, she left the room, whispering, ‘Good night,’ softly before shutting the door behind her.
When Cynthia went into her front room, she sat down and sipped at her wine. They would both be off to sleep soon, she had made sure of that – she had crushed half a sleeping tablet into their hot milks. James was off out, overseeing the books in a club in Romford, and she had a small lamb casserole in the oven simmering away ready for when Jonny got here. She felt the pull of him already, hence the drugged children; nothing or no one would interfere with her time with him.
It was strange the way it had panned out. She felt a sorrow for Celeste that was so deep, and so sad it was almost tangible. She knew that Jonny could never leave her sister, and she was content with that for the moment. All she wanted was him, inside her, in her bed where she gave her husband a mercy fuck often enough to allay his suspicions. All she wanted was what she had. And that was tonight, because there was no way they would be able to get together over Christmas.
She had put on her new underwear, she had made her face up so it looked more exquisite than ever, and she had put on her old clothes, because there was nothing that turned him on more than ripping them off her as he walked through the door. She felt the thrill of him inside her once more and, settling herself in the comfortable armchair, she awaited his arrival.
Life didn’t get much better than this; a drink, a sit and the anticipation of a good fuck into the bargain. This was what she lived for, what kept her going. This was the stuff that dreams were made of.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jonny Parker was on his way to Cynthia’s with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and a diamond pendant that she would dismiss as a knock-off from the market like she had everything else he had bought her. He felt the tug of her as he drove sedately through the London traffic.
He liked to savour the journey to her house – always her house, never Jimmy’s. He liked the knowledge that she would be waiting for him, would fuck him like an animal, and then feed him a wonderful supper and talk as if they were no more than good friends. She knew what a man wanted, a real man, and he felt sorry for Jimmy Tailor, who would never be enough for the woman who was his wife.
Jonny was the king of the world; he had outed Bryant, he was now the main man in the Smoke, and all that was left for him to do was find that cunt Bertie Warner. And find him he would, if it was the last thing he did in this life. He would find him, and he would crush him like a fucking beetle under his shoe. He owed Celeste that much, if nothing else. He had put her in danger and, if it hadn’t been for Cynthia, she would be dead. Then he would never have found out what really made him tick.
No woman had affected him like Celeste – she was pure and clean and good. But, thanks to Cynthia, he saw that she was not enough for him. Without her he would never have understood that he had a real lust for blood, and that blood lust would take him places he had never dreamt possible, both mentally and sexually.
London was his, and he was going to own it all. The man who could take it off him hadn’t been born yet. He had a slice of everything – from blags to betting shops to nightclubs, market stalls, shops, even the bingo halls, the list was endless. He had finally made it, was finally the top banana, and now came the hardest part of all.
Staying there.
Book Two
The half is greater than the whole
Hesiod, ca. 700 BC
Chapter Forty
1994
Cynthia was tired after her long day’s work but happy; these days she was working for Jonny along with her husband and she loved it. They were getting a serious earn now, and if her husband wondered at the change in their status he was either too shrewd or too stupid to say so. She had a feeling it was the latter, but she never asked him, she didn’t really