Read Online A Simple Act of Violence by R.J. Ellory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.J. Ellory
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people thought he should be. A loser. A lowlife. A crackhead nigger.
This had brought it all back to her. A face had looked right back at her from the front page of the Post. Natasha didn’t want it to be the same woman who’d come looking for Darryl, smartly dressed, ever-so-polite, beside her the nervous sidekick - chewing gum, saying nothing, giving her twenty bucks for Chloe when he left. Natasha had figured them for cops, but they were not. The woman had done all the talking. Seemed decent. Scared though. She’d said her name. Natasha could not now recall what it was, but she knew for sure that it hadn’t been Catherine Sheridan. And now some crazy guy, a guy they named the Ribbon Killer, had murdered her. They said it was his fourth victim. One thing Natasha Joyce knew for sure. Knew that crazy guy was going to be white.
And that’s if they were the same people. Looked like her. Like. That was all. Lots of people looked like other people.
It was intuition that told her. Intuition, a gut feeling, whatever the hell it was called . . .
Chloe had seen the face in the paper and hadn’t hesitated.
Natasha looked at her daughter, and she thought Gotta get you out of here, girl. Gotta get you outta here whatever it costs. You’re not gonna have the life I’ve had. Not my life, nor Darryl’s, nor the life those scared white folks in Georgetown think you deserve. Gonna do whatever has to be done.
Something like that. Kind of thought she’d had before, but this time she felt it with a sense of certainty, a sense of urgency, a sense of importance.
Thought of Darryl again; thought Darryl - whoever the fuck you were, whatever the hell you were into, whoever the hell you might or might not have known . . . your daughter, our daughter, deserves better than this . . . What d’you reckon, Darryl, you fucked-up, smashed-to-pieces, crackhead loser black asshole motherfucker? Oh God, Darryl, I don’t know that I could have loved you more. Tried everything. Gave everything I had to give while I watched you fall apart. And afterwards I made believe I could forget it all. Didn’t want to know what happened. Pretended that all this shit was behind us, but it wasn’t, and it isn’t now, and it’s true that all the things you never faced will somehow find you . . .
And then she glanced once more at the Post, and thought Damn bitch. Why d’you have to go get yourself murdered by some crazy motherfucker.
Natasha felt she couldn’t wait to see if scared Miss Antrobus called the cops and told tales. She figured that Miss Mulatto-What a friend we have in Jesus-interfering-bitch was just that kind of woman, and thus Natasha knew she would have to make the call herself. Tell them that maybe she knew something.
Natasha Joyce was twenty-nine years old. Chloe’s father had been dead for a little more than five years. What little life he’d had she’d watched disappear effortlessly through a hypodermic needle. Now the police would come again. If Miss Antrobus made the call then they would come over and see her. They would want to know how Chloe had known the woman’s face in the newspaper. Natasha had never been able to lie. She would tell them that someone had come down to the projects to speak with Darryl King. Then they would want to know what Darryl King had been involved in, how he’d known this dead woman. Natasha would say that she wasn’t sure it was the same woman. They would see it in her eyes, how afraid she was of becoming involved in this. Natasha hadn’t wanted to know then, and she didn’t want to know now. But something inside told her that understanding any part of what had happened back then would make her feel better. Not because it would be good news, because after Darryl started doing heroin nothing had ever been good news, but because it might bring a degree of closure. It had been a fucked-up time, a really fucked-up time, but it had been part of her life. Part of her life that had given her Chloe,
This had brought it all back to her. A face had looked right back at her from the front page of the Post. Natasha didn’t want it to be the same woman who’d come looking for Darryl, smartly dressed, ever-so-polite, beside her the nervous sidekick - chewing gum, saying nothing, giving her twenty bucks for Chloe when he left. Natasha had figured them for cops, but they were not. The woman had done all the talking. Seemed decent. Scared though. She’d said her name. Natasha could not now recall what it was, but she knew for sure that it hadn’t been Catherine Sheridan. And now some crazy guy, a guy they named the Ribbon Killer, had murdered her. They said it was his fourth victim. One thing Natasha Joyce knew for sure. Knew that crazy guy was going to be white.
And that’s if they were the same people. Looked like her. Like. That was all. Lots of people looked like other people.
It was intuition that told her. Intuition, a gut feeling, whatever the hell it was called . . .
Chloe had seen the face in the paper and hadn’t hesitated.
Natasha looked at her daughter, and she thought Gotta get you out of here, girl. Gotta get you outta here whatever it costs. You’re not gonna have the life I’ve had. Not my life, nor Darryl’s, nor the life those scared white folks in Georgetown think you deserve. Gonna do whatever has to be done.
Something like that. Kind of thought she’d had before, but this time she felt it with a sense of certainty, a sense of urgency, a sense of importance.
Thought of Darryl again; thought Darryl - whoever the fuck you were, whatever the hell you were into, whoever the hell you might or might not have known . . . your daughter, our daughter, deserves better than this . . . What d’you reckon, Darryl, you fucked-up, smashed-to-pieces, crackhead loser black asshole motherfucker? Oh God, Darryl, I don’t know that I could have loved you more. Tried everything. Gave everything I had to give while I watched you fall apart. And afterwards I made believe I could forget it all. Didn’t want to know what happened. Pretended that all this shit was behind us, but it wasn’t, and it isn’t now, and it’s true that all the things you never faced will somehow find you . . .
And then she glanced once more at the Post, and thought Damn bitch. Why d’you have to go get yourself murdered by some crazy motherfucker.
Natasha felt she couldn’t wait to see if scared Miss Antrobus called the cops and told tales. She figured that Miss Mulatto-What a friend we have in Jesus-interfering-bitch was just that kind of woman, and thus Natasha knew she would have to make the call herself. Tell them that maybe she knew something.
Natasha Joyce was twenty-nine years old. Chloe’s father had been dead for a little more than five years. What little life he’d had she’d watched disappear effortlessly through a hypodermic needle. Now the police would come again. If Miss Antrobus made the call then they would come over and see her. They would want to know how Chloe had known the woman’s face in the newspaper. Natasha had never been able to lie. She would tell them that someone had come down to the projects to speak with Darryl King. Then they would want to know what Darryl King had been involved in, how he’d known this dead woman. Natasha would say that she wasn’t sure it was the same woman. They would see it in her eyes, how afraid she was of becoming involved in this. Natasha hadn’t wanted to know then, and she didn’t want to know now. But something inside told her that understanding any part of what had happened back then would make her feel better. Not because it would be good news, because after Darryl started doing heroin nothing had ever been good news, but because it might bring a degree of closure. It had been a fucked-up time, a really fucked-up time, but it had been part of her life. Part of her life that had given her Chloe,
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