Page 122 of Duplicity

‘Go home, Bren,’ she says wearily. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Who knows how much I’ve pissed them off. I don’t want them to come looking for trouble and break this fucking door down. Your locks are shite, by the way.’

‘You can’t sleep on the sofa,’ she protests, ‘and you’re not sleeping in my bed.’

‘Fine.’ I stride over to the sofa and pull the seat cushions off, throwing them in the direction of the door. I do the same with the various scatter cushions. It will be woefully inadequate, but it’ll have to do.

It’s only one night. How bad can it be?

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Marlowe asks, looking at me as if I’ve finally lost the plot.

Maybe I have. The Brendan Sullivan I know doesn’t walk away from the career opportunity of a lifetime to hang out on an airless paediatric ward for a week. He prefers living it up in the South of France to playing endless rounds of Marco Polo on the weekends.

And he’s sane enough to choose to go home to his bespoke Hästens mattress instead of playing build-a-bed with some foam blocks.

Churlishly, I shove the big square cushions against the wall so they form a makeshift mattress in front of the door. If thesedickheads want to threaten Marlowe and Tabs, they’ll have to get past me first.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I ask crossly. ‘I’m sleeping on the floor.’

CHAPTER 57

Brendan

It’s stupid o’clock and I can’t sleep. Not surprising, given this flat is like a furnace and every time I turn over, the cushions skid on the laminate floor and separate.

I should probably just sleep on the floor itself.

As soon as Marlowe took herself off to her room I called Yan to tell him to go home. Then I called a mate of mine, Adrian, who runs a seriously hardcore private security firm. I met him through the guards who patrol my apartment block and he now does quite a bit of work for us.

I smile to myself as I imagine one of his most badass guys turning up sometime tonight to kick off what will be a permanent security presence downstairs from now on. While private security guards can’t carry weapons, Adrian’s guys don’t need them. They’re all trained killers, former mercenaries who require nothing more than their wits and their bare hands to make short shrift of anyone.

Those little turds will have to find somewhere new to hang out.

This is useless. I kick off the sheet Marlowe gave me and get to my feet. I’m only wearing boxers—my plan is to be up and out of here before Tabs wakes up. Much as I’d like to see her,Marlowe wasn’t exactly thrilled about my “ridiculous caveman antics” (her words) and I can’t imagine she’ll want to see me in the morning. I’m not here to earn brownie points. I’m here because it’s the right thing to do, but I don’t want to undo the momentum we achieved last night.

I pad around her living area as quietly as I can. There are no curtains at the kitchen window, so the street lamps provide adequate light for me to see. What this place lacks in comforts and basic security requirements, it makes up for in love. There may not be an Hermès throw in sight, but the fridge is covered in Tabby’s artwork and photos of the two of them. It makes my heart hurt to think of what a special bond these two have, and how much pain and suffering that bond has caused Marlowe over the years as she fights so hard for Tabby’s health.

There’s a card spelling outI love you Mummy xxwith a selfie of Marlowe and Tabs in a park somewhere, minus Tabby’s two front teeth. Marlowe looks so beautiful. Her hair is blowing around her face, her cheek squished against Tabby’s.

I drift towards the bookshelves. They’re cheapo ones whose ability to hold the shitload of books Marlowe has doesn’t inspire confidence. I glance through the books. She really likes cookery. There’s a lot of sheet music at the bottom, which I assume is left over from her degree. I find myself wishing I could just drag her and Tabs and all this music over to my place and be done with it. There are also some photo albums.

Bingo.

They’re the ones you compile online before receiving the printed version in the mail. It looks like Marlowe does one each year.

I pull four or five out of the stack and return to my makeshift bed, opening the first book up. I’m not great with kids’ ages, but Tabby looks to be two or three at a guess. It’s amazing that Marlowe finds the time to put these mementos together amidthe stress of working and parenting and dealing with hospital visits.

I drop down to one elbow and proceed to take a trip through the memories of the two people I’ve fallen for, memories I play no part in. Right now, the best I can hope for is that they allow me to be a part of their future memories. I may be the one with the ten-figure net worth, but there’s no denying that Marlowe is richer than me in the ways that count.

Imust have passed out eventually, because when I wake, the sun is streaming through the room. The floor beside me is strewn with photo albums, and my phone reads just after seven. Shit. I sit up in a panic before realising that the sound that’s woken me is gentle crying.

Tabby’s crying, to be precise.

I pull my shirt and trousers on hurriedly and pad over to Tabby’s room. Marlowe’s already in there, sitting on the edge of her bed.

‘Hey,’ I say as softly as possible so as not to startle Tabs. ‘What’s up, sunshine?’

Tabs gapes at me through her tears. ‘Hi, Bren. What are you doing here?’

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