The Pope: Cards of Love Read online

  I turn my attention to Charles, and he offers me a smile, flashing perfect teeth to match his baby blues. His hand drags through golden hair, flashing the expensive watch on his wrist. He’s the archetypical privileged guy in every way that matters.

  As I head towards him, my stomach knots and a little shot of adrenaline enters my bloodstream. I think it’s the danger, the possibility of being caught, knowing I’m doing something wrong. With every step, my heartbeat picks up. Sliding my hand into the top of my bra, I pinch a tiny plastic bag between two fingers and ball it in my fist. Charles stops in front of me, a wide smile on his face as he pulls me into an embrace. He smells clean like cologne and top-shelf vodka. My arms wrap around his waist, and I slide the tiny plastic bag into the back pocket of his jeans. To anyone watching us, we look like friends or maybe lovers embracing, when in reality, I barely know him, and certainly not well enough to be hugging him. I paint a smile on my face, keeping up the farce as I pull away and shift past him. We go our separate ways, and I walk over to where Nate lingers at the bar.

  Dark eyes track me the entire way, roaming over my body as though he owns every inch of it. His t-shirt pulls tight over his muscled physique, the pristine white material contrasting with the black ink that covers his entire right arm. From the moment I saw him in that dirty bar, all dark hair, tanned skin, tattoos, and cocky attitude, I was like a fish on a hook. Sliding his palm to my back, he wrenches me up against him, forcing me to straddle one thigh.

  “I want to break his arms for touching you,” he murmurs in my ear before his teeth scrape my neck. My body flushes, and a trembling breath leaves my lips.

  “That wouldn’t be very good for your business, would it?”

  He grabs my jaw, pushing me back just a few inches before slamming his lips over mine. His tongue invades my mouth, claiming, demanding, taking what he wants. “You look fucking hot in that dress, Lila.” His free hand slides up the length of my thigh, pushing under my skirt. He nips my bottom lip and then steps back, picking his beer up again.

  I steady myself on the edge of the bar before my legs threaten to give out. Nate orders me a drink and slides it in front of me with a wink. Picking up the raspberry Martini, I take a sip and relish in the sweetness mixing with the bite of alcohol.

  “They’re in for a wild night,” he says, his eyes trained off to the side of the room. I follow his gaze to Charles, who is now sitting at a table with Isabella. She places something in her mouth and washes it down with a shot of what looks like tequila. I frown, something uncomfortable pulling at my gut.

  Nate places a finger beneath my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You did great, baby.” He kisses my jaw. “You’re good at this.”

  I can’t pinpoint when I decided that working with Nate was a good idea. It was a few months before I realised that the all-nighters, the nice car, the lack of a 9-5 job, all equated to the fact that he’s a drug dealer. Logically, I should have walked away, but that defiant streak in me only wanted him more. The badder the better, right? Then the opportunity arose to do a little side work and I figured, why not? My father had cut me off, and it is exceptionally easy money. But honestly, it really has nothing to do with the cash. It’s the rush, the thrill of doing something illegal. That feeling of adrenaline pumping through your veins because this might be the time you get caught. I’ve always been the good girl. Sweet little Delilah who is going to be a doctor. Whose daddy is a brain surgeon. From a perfect family. Only now, I’m none of those things, and I love it. If I get caught… it would suck, but I can’t help but smile as I picture my father’s face. The horror. The disappointment.

  There’s a twisted satisfaction in it all, a sense of abandonment that I relish in — because I simply don’t care. And that…is freedom.

  2

  Delilah

  Bright morning light streams through the windows, and I blink, rolling away from it. Sliding my hand across the sheets, I find they’re still warm, and the scent of Nate’s cologne lingers on them.

  When I get downstairs, I find him sitting at the breakfast bar in only a pair of jeans, a cup of coffee in hand. He’s splitting his attention between the television on the counter, which is tuned into some weekend breakfast show, and Summer, Izzy’s cousin and our fourth housemate. She’s hovering around him like a fly, twirling a strand of fake blonde hair around her finger.

  “Oh, hi, Lila.” Summer and I, do not like each other.

  Nate holds his hand out to her, and she plucks a small bag of pills from his palm.

  “Thanks, Nate.” She smiles wide and leaves the kitchen, her hips swaying beneath the tiny sundress she’s wearing. He turns his attention back to the TV without blinking.

  “Thanks, Nate,” I mimic, rolling my eyes.

  Shaking my head, I go to the coffee machine. Nate loops an arm around my waist as I move past him and presses a kiss into the side of my neck.

  “Are you jealous?” he asks, amusement lacing his voice.

  I cock a brow. “I don’t do jealous, Nate.” But I do imagine what Summer’s face would look like with a broken nose.

  “You sure? Because it’s kind of hot.”

  “You’re a psycho.” I smirk.

  He wrenches me forward, bringing his lips to my ear. “So are you, baby. You just hide it better.”

  I push away from him. “Stop trying to distract me. You can’t just hand your shit out to anyone who asks.” His hands work under my top, and his lips cruise along my collarbone as he ignores me. “That’s how you get arrested. I’ve seen these undercover police shows.”

  He snorts and grabs the front of his t-shirt that I’m wearing, tugging me close. My hands land on his chest and the rich scent of coffee wafts around me. “You worry too much.”

  His lips hit my neck, and my eyes drift to the TV. I still, and it’s as though the very blood in my veins has turned to ice. My chest knots so hard, I can’t catch a full breath, and my heart lets out stuttered, heavy thuds.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  I push away from Nate and grasp the edge of the counter, fighting back the bile that’s creeping up my throat. It’s no good. Whirling around, I throw up in the sink. My pounding pulse races in my ears, but I can still hear the reporter talking.

  “The man and woman were found in the nightclub, Fire, in the early hours of this morning. Both were rushed to St. George’s hospital but were pronounced dead on arrival. This is a suspected drug overdose, but a coroner’s report will confirm. They have been identified as Isabelle Wright, and Charles Stanley, son of General Edward Stanley.”

  A hand lands on my back, and I’m vaguely aware of Nate’s voice, but it’s a distant hum over the incessant ringing in my ears.

  “It’s okay.” Those are the only words I can make out. It’s not though. Reality crashes into me like a freight train ploughing into my chest. Isabelle is dead. Isabelle overdosed. Charles overdosed. On drugs I gave them.

  “Shit,” I choke. “This isn’t happening.”

  “Lila.”

  “Just…I need you to go, Nate.”

  Staggering away from the kitchen, I go to the bathroom and lock the door. I slide to the floor and clutch my knees to my chest as the tears fall. Horror sets in like the hand of death itself wrapping around my throat. I feel sick. She’s dead. I’m a killer. And nothing will ever be the same again.

  * * *

  The sunshine illuminates my fogged breath as it hits the air, and the frozen grass crunches beneath my boots. The frosted headstones sparkle like gems in the icy landscape of the cemetery. It’s too bright. Too pretty.

  The people gathered around the freshly dug grave seem like demons, leeching all the happiness from the world with their black clothing.

  I stare numbly at the deep dark hole in the ground — her pristine white coffin sitting at the bottom. It’s been two weeks since she died, and I’m not sure it’s fully sunk in until now. Two weeks of this numb zombie state. Two weeks of nightmares.
Two weeks of waiting for the police to knock on my door and drag me away like the killer I am.

  People step forward one at a time, paying their respects and dropping roses on the coffin.

  A jagged, painful lump in my throat accompanies the tears that track down my cheeks. It’s become familiar to me now though. Like my guilt and grief are two strands of barbed wire that have knotted together tightly, lodging there.

  I watch Isabelle’s mother cling to her older brother, her sobs a sombre note ringing out through the graveyard. I watch him try to stay strong, try to hold his mother up in her hour of need, and my heart breaks for him. For them. I did that. My actions that I thought had no consequences; well, I’m looking at the consequences. A family torn apart. Two families, in fact. And Isabelle, so young and wild. She deserved better.

  “Lila.” I glance up at the sound of the small voice. Tiffany stands a few feet away, her hands knotted in front of her, the black skirt of her dress blowing in the wind. “Do you want a lift to the wake?”

  I look back down at the coffin. “I’m not going.” I’ve paid my respects and said goodbye, apologised to her a thousand times in my mind and hope that somehow the thoughts find their way out into the universe. Sorry isn’t enough, but it’s all I have, because what is a life worth? It’s immeasurable.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I have something I have to do.”

  Her blonde eyebrows pinch together. “Look, Lila. We’ve all been hit hard by her death, but…but I know Izzy would want me to try and take care of you.” She moves closer, placing a hand on my arm. “Please don’t hide from me.”

  I nod. “Thanks.” The word is flat even to my ears, but I really don’t care. Turning away, I start walking. “Goodbye, Izzy,” I whisper.

  Wrapping my arms tightly around my body, I hunch against the biting cold that seems to have penetrated my very bones. Saturday morning shoppers and people going about their lives, pack the London streets. I’ve always been an outsider, a lone wolf as such, but never have I felt more removed than now. Until Izzy and Tiff, I’d never really know what it was to have true friends — to be a part of something. Izzy was good to me, kind when she didn’t have to be. And now she’s gone because of me. The guilt and the grief have eaten me alive for the last two weeks. But I can’t handle the waiting, the not knowing.

  Crossing the road, I pass through the tall metal gates that lead up to the front of Thames Police Station. A couple of police cars cruise past me before pulling up outside. I glance up at the drab-looking five-storey building with its grey concrete walls and dirty windows. Taking a deep breath, I step off the kerb but am wrenched backwards before my foot meets the tarmac road. Turning around, I come face to face with Nate, his expression twisted in a snarl.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses.

  His fingers wrap around my wrist in a bruising grip. I’m so numb that I don’t fight him as he drags me down the road.

  “Let me go.”

  I’m shoved into an alleyway between a bar and a restaurant and slammed up against the wall. Hot breaths rush over my face and his arm trembles as he presses it against my chest, pinning me in place.

  “Fuck.” He shoves away violently and paces back and forth in front of me. “What the hell are you thinking, Lila?”

  “I killed her,” I whisper.

  He laughs, the sound, cold and cruel. “She killed herself, you stupid bitch.”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “She took one pill too many, Lila. It happens. Your perspective is just warped.”

  “She’s dead, Nate!” How can he possibly be blasé about this?

  “Life goes on.”

  “I have to turn myself in.” He might be able to live like this, but I can’t. The guilt is like a disease, eating away at me day after day. And the anxiety; the constant looking over my shoulder, wondering when the police will knock on my door…it’s killing me. I’m a mess.

  He rushes me, his hand slipping around my throat and squeezing hard enough to provide an adequate warning. “You don’t understand. You do that, and you risk all of us.”

  “I’m only turning myself in. I won’t say anything about you.”

  A sick smile twists his lips. “Until they press you, asking who gave you the pills or who you work for. They don’t want some university student with the conscience of fucking Mother Theresa. They want the dealers.”

  “I won’t sell you out,” I say flatly. Maybe I should though because it’s wrong. This is all so wrong.

  His eyes lock with mine, and his jaw tenses. He seems so cold now, so ruthless.

  “I almost believe you.” His eyes drop to my lips, and though his grip doesn’t soften, he strokes a thumb over the side of my throat. “But not enough to risk it.” He steps away from me, and we stand a couple of feet apart, feeling like strangers. “If you go to the police, I can’t protect you from the people I work for, Lila. They won’t care about what you do or don’t say. You going there is enough. They’ll go to any lengths to protect their business. You, me…we’re all disposable.”

  And then he simply turns and walks away, leaving me in the dirty alleyway alone. I was prepared to turn myself in, ready to lose years of my life if it would go some way towards righting this wrong, but I don’t want to die. Call it basic survival instinct. But this is all I have, my coping mechanism. I’ve been on auto-pilot, one foot in front of the other to get to the funeral and then here. Beyond that, I had no plan, no way to deal with this.

  And where does that leave me? I can’t turn myself in, but I can’t live like this either. Stepping out of the alleyway, I glance to the left and spot the sign for a bar. Without much thought, I go inside and order a shot of vodka. I just need to drown everything out.

  3

  Judas

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The deep, gravelly voice rumbles from the other side of the divider. “My sins are…grievous.” One word, completely inconspicuous to anyone who may be listening, but one particular word that tells me this man is here for business, not spiritual healing.

  “I see. How many Hail Mary’s do you think will absolve you?”

  “Three should do it.”

  “Third pew from the back on the left. Usual time,” I whisper, before speaking louder for anyone who might be listening. “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

  “Amen,” he responds, before leaving the booth.

  Pulling the curtain back a fraction, I watch as he moves towards the rear of the church and slides into the pew, third from the back on the left. Dropping the curtain, I straighten as a new sinner takes a seat for confession.

  “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It has been twelve days since my last confession,” the man says.

  “I will hear your confession.”

  There’s a pause, and I smile. The petty sins are the ones they spill easily, seeking to be appeased and assured of their place behind the pearly gates. But that pause? That’s the sign of a true sinner.

  “I was unfaithful to my wife,” he whispers. Ah, and there it is, the waft of guilt, the simperings of a tainted soul.

  “And do you repent?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m…truly sorry.” No, he’s not. He’ll do the same thing, again and again, because some of us can’t help ourselves. We’re fundamentally flawed, drawn to the darkness. Bad people. But it’s often said that God loves the sinner. He just hates the Sin.

  I recite the words I’ve spoken a thousand times, granting him false forgiveness.

  As darkness encroaches the church, I move through the aisle, placing bibles along the worn wooden lip on the back of each pew. When I reach the third pew from the back, I pick up the first prayer cushion and
unzip it, removing a wad of cash inside.

  Taking my phone from my pocket, I dial the first number on there.

  “Yeah?”

  “Bring three kilos. Third from the back. Left side.” And then I hang up, picking up three of the prayer cushions and moving them. Within the next hour, one of my guys will place three kilos of cocaine in this very pew, the block the exact size as a prayer cushion and concealed within the awful crocheted fabric. An hour after that, the client who placed and paid for his order this morning, will come in and collect.

  Simple. Effective. Lucrative. And all protected by the holy premise of religion.

  I check my watch, and when I look up, my father is striding down the centre aisle looking like every dodgy gangster from every movie I’ve ever seen. His dark grey hair is combed back, his three-piece suit in place, and his shoes so shiny I could probably see my reflection in them. He pauses in front of me, saying nothing as he places a cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply.

  “You can’t smoke in here, old man.”

  His hardened face breaks into a smile and perfect white veneers stand out against tanned skin. Long ingrained lines sink into the corners of his eyes from years of laughter. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” He crosses himself, a hacking laugh bubbling from his throat.

  “Come on.” I roll my eyes, heading towards the door at the back of the church.

  He follows me into the office and circles behind the desk, kicking his shiny brogues up on it. Changing out of my robes, I hang them on the back of the door. “You know,” he glances around the room, swiping the rosary off the desk and dangling it from one finger, “I once saw a porno that started out like this.”