The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) by Primula Bond Page B
Authors: Primula Bond
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something’s not right. You hinted at something back in London? “One more tiny fact”, you said.’
I wait for Gustav’s voice on the phone, have a fierce longing to hear him speaking, but there’s only a kind of creaking and whirring as if he’s walking round with me in his pocket. ‘Is there more?’
Pierre Levi is so close that I notice his glowing black eyes don’t have the unique crackle of gold round the iris that Gustav has. I can see the pulse above his collar, notice for the first time a curious white bumpy scar winding up round his ear. The dark shadow of beard is coming through on the slightly thicker chin and cheeks.
He’s the rough, uncut chip off the fine, faceted block of his brother.
‘Very observant, Miss Folkes. Not that he picked up on it. Yes. There’s more. Gustav asked me if I wanted blood. Remember?’ Pierre starts to unbutton his shirt. ‘This bloody enough, do you think?’
Polly and I gape at each other. ‘Pierre, don’t do this,’ she mumbles, trying to stand. Her thin legs buckle under her and she falls back into the sofa.
‘I know you can’t bear the sight of me naked, Polly, but your cousin has to know what her boyfriend did to me.’ Pierre undoes the final button, pulls his shirt open. ‘I warned Gustav that Margot had the final word the night I left. And as he’s not here to explain it, I’ll just go ahead and throw my final grenade into the proceedings.’
He yanks his shirt off, tosses it at Polly and spreads his arms out like a martyr.
There, distorting his chest, carving ridges in his upper arms, slicing across his back, is a cobwebbing network of burns, puckering the red, raw, shiny skin. Polly crumples the shirt against her mouth.
I keep my eyes on Pierre’s, reading the curious mixture of accusation and appeal burning there. I refuse to stare at the welts and grafts. I’m trying to find words that will comfort, spreading my fingers towards his scarred, burnt torso.
‘This is how Gustav Levi protects his loved ones. This is the “tiny fact” that Margot told me when she saw me naked for the first time. How easy do you think it was to leave Baker Street after hearing – I’ll phrase it in that gorgeous Germanic accent of hers – “Gustav Levi sets fire to your house, and then he lets you burn.”’
We all stand there rigid, breathless. The silver hands on the clock join as if in prayer to mark midnight, and that is when Gustav opens the huge white door to the apartment with such force that it crashes back against the wall.
I swivel desperately round to stop him crying out in hearty greeting. I wonder what he sees, what terrible story this web of scars tells him. Somehow I fear that I’ve cocked up, that somehow I’m to blame for this unpeeling of yet another onion layer.
‘What’s going on?
Gustav clutches the back of the third sofa, the one where he always sits. The one with the best view over Central Park. The one I call the shagging seat, because – no. I can’t think about the two of us entwined there. Not right now.
‘I’m showing her what you did when I was a baby, Gustav. You started the fire in our house and you let us all burn. You were smoking in your room, and you dropped the cigarette carelessly and climbed out through the window to meet some girl. You kept this tiny fact from me all my life, too gutless to confess. So Gustav is the one who betrayed
me
, Serena. Not the other way round.’ Pierre’s use of my name for the first time is almost as shocking as the ruined state of his flesh. ‘He’s the one who disfigured me. Who robbed me of my parents. He’s the reason I still have nightmares.’
Gustav has to speak now. If he doesn’t speak within the next ten seconds, I’ll never trust him again. I take one stumbling step towards him. I can’t stand to hear Pierre’s voice any more. Gustav forces his gaze from his brother’s body and holds up one hand like a traffic policeman, shaking his head over and over again.
I wait for Gustav’s voice on the phone, have a fierce longing to hear him speaking, but there’s only a kind of creaking and whirring as if he’s walking round with me in his pocket. ‘Is there more?’
Pierre Levi is so close that I notice his glowing black eyes don’t have the unique crackle of gold round the iris that Gustav has. I can see the pulse above his collar, notice for the first time a curious white bumpy scar winding up round his ear. The dark shadow of beard is coming through on the slightly thicker chin and cheeks.
He’s the rough, uncut chip off the fine, faceted block of his brother.
‘Very observant, Miss Folkes. Not that he picked up on it. Yes. There’s more. Gustav asked me if I wanted blood. Remember?’ Pierre starts to unbutton his shirt. ‘This bloody enough, do you think?’
Polly and I gape at each other. ‘Pierre, don’t do this,’ she mumbles, trying to stand. Her thin legs buckle under her and she falls back into the sofa.
‘I know you can’t bear the sight of me naked, Polly, but your cousin has to know what her boyfriend did to me.’ Pierre undoes the final button, pulls his shirt open. ‘I warned Gustav that Margot had the final word the night I left. And as he’s not here to explain it, I’ll just go ahead and throw my final grenade into the proceedings.’
He yanks his shirt off, tosses it at Polly and spreads his arms out like a martyr.
There, distorting his chest, carving ridges in his upper arms, slicing across his back, is a cobwebbing network of burns, puckering the red, raw, shiny skin. Polly crumples the shirt against her mouth.
I keep my eyes on Pierre’s, reading the curious mixture of accusation and appeal burning there. I refuse to stare at the welts and grafts. I’m trying to find words that will comfort, spreading my fingers towards his scarred, burnt torso.
‘This is how Gustav Levi protects his loved ones. This is the “tiny fact” that Margot told me when she saw me naked for the first time. How easy do you think it was to leave Baker Street after hearing – I’ll phrase it in that gorgeous Germanic accent of hers – “Gustav Levi sets fire to your house, and then he lets you burn.”’
We all stand there rigid, breathless. The silver hands on the clock join as if in prayer to mark midnight, and that is when Gustav opens the huge white door to the apartment with such force that it crashes back against the wall.
I swivel desperately round to stop him crying out in hearty greeting. I wonder what he sees, what terrible story this web of scars tells him. Somehow I fear that I’ve cocked up, that somehow I’m to blame for this unpeeling of yet another onion layer.
‘What’s going on?
Gustav clutches the back of the third sofa, the one where he always sits. The one with the best view over Central Park. The one I call the shagging seat, because – no. I can’t think about the two of us entwined there. Not right now.
‘I’m showing her what you did when I was a baby, Gustav. You started the fire in our house and you let us all burn. You were smoking in your room, and you dropped the cigarette carelessly and climbed out through the window to meet some girl. You kept this tiny fact from me all my life, too gutless to confess. So Gustav is the one who betrayed
me
, Serena. Not the other way round.’ Pierre’s use of my name for the first time is almost as shocking as the ruined state of his flesh. ‘He’s the one who disfigured me. Who robbed me of my parents. He’s the reason I still have nightmares.’
Gustav has to speak now. If he doesn’t speak within the next ten seconds, I’ll never trust him again. I take one stumbling step towards him. I can’t stand to hear Pierre’s voice any more. Gustav forces his gaze from his brother’s body and holds up one hand like a traffic policeman, shaking his head over and over again.
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