Folly by Jassy Mackenzie Read Free Book Online Page A

seemed right to sacrifice these items. Now, though, I had no choice.
    â€˜Man up,’ I told myself sternly. ‘At least you’ll have a chance of reclaiming them at some stage if this venture succeeds.’
    With some difficulty, and the help of soapy water, I wrestled my wedding and engagement rings off my finger.
    There was one other piece of jewellery that might have some value – a string of cultured pearls, one of my first Christmas gifts from Mark. I’d worn the necklace a couple of times but I hadn’t taken it out of its box for years. I would feel no guilt hocking it. The same could not be said, however, for my rings.
    After a bit of soapy care, my solid gold wedding band gleamed and the three diamonds in the engagement ring sparkled when I put the rings on a folded dishcloth in the sun to dry. I tried not to think about the day that Mark had proposed to me, at the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, his favourite city, or the fact that I’d never taken the rings off my finger until now.
    Then I set off on the hour-long journey that led to the twenty-four-hour cash loan outlet located directly across the road from a large casino complex.
    There was going to be no way to retain even a semblance of dignity during this transaction. Whatever excuse I tried to come up with, however I tried to justify my actions, the reality was that selling wedding jewellery at a pawn shop smacked of total desperation. At worst, they’d assume I was an addict of some sort – probably a compulsive gambler. At best, they were going to see me as a woman down on her luck, and in that regard, they were going to be right.
    An hour later, I drove the Renault into a customer parking lot surrounded by a rust-coloured wall and occupied by a Mercedes Benz, an ancient Toyota Corolla, and a motorbike. A bored-looking security guard closed the gate behind me before returning to his booth.
    I climbed out of the car feeling as if there was a giant finger in the sky pointing down at me and that at any moment a great voice might yell, ‘Look, everyone! There’s Emma Caine, pawning her rings!’
    Head down, I scuttled to the door.
    Inside, it was surprisingly dark, probably because the high windows were shielded by sturdy ranks of metal bars, and one of the strip lights in the ceiling wasn’t working. The cubicles where the two assistants sat were protected by a thick layer of what was surely bulletproof glass. Both of them were busy with customers.
    One customer was a blonde woman who was perched on the edge of her seat with her back to me, so I couldn’t see her face or guess her age. All I could see was her over-processed hair, crackling with splits and static, wisping down onto thin and narrow shoulders.
    The other, who had a motorbike helmet wedged under his arm, glanced round as soon as I walked in. Looking at his narrow, mean-looking face made me wonder how much trade this shop did in stolen goods, and whether this was in any way regulated.
    By the door was a row of plain wooden chairs where a fleshy-looking, pale-faced man sat waiting stolidly. I sat down at the other end of the row, with my eyes fixed on the door.
    â€˜It’s got to be worth more than that. You have to give me more.’
    It was the blonde speaking, in tight, hoarse tones. I turned to watch her, horrified yet mesmerised by the spectacle of her begging. The man serving her was skinny, with light-brown buzz-cut hair and hard blue eyes. He looked both competent and uncompromising. A person who wouldn’t budge.
    The genial-looking black man in the other cubicle, now concluding his deal with the gangster type, had a more sympathetic look about him. It was a pity, I thought, as the gangster folded the money into his wallet and walked out, that since the man waiting next to me was now going forward to his window, I was going to get Mr No Mercy when the blonde woman left.
    She was actually crying now. Low, rasping sobs. The man