Pretty Lady (14 page)

‘I've had a thought about that myself,' Peter said. ‘Let's just take another look upstairs.'

She followed him up the stairs and into Denny's room. It seemed emptier and more poignant every time she entered it. Tears were too close and she fought them away. They could do no good. Time enough for tears when every last hope had been exhausted. When there was nothing else to be done.

‘There,' Peter said, pointing triumphantly at the bedside table. There was nothing on it except the last trace of Denny alive – the chalky squiggles Vera had tried to erase. (As she'd see Denny erased, without compunction, so that the surface of her life would be smooth and unmarred again.)

‘And –' he knelt, plunged under the bed and surfaced with a stub of chalk, ‘ – there.' Standing, he matched it to the chalk marks on the table-top. They were the same colour. ‘That's what I thought.'

‘What is?' The chalk conveyed nothing to her except the memory of the times Denny had been scolded for using it heedlessly on the pavement just outside the house. And sometimes on the walls. It was useless now to regret the times she'd scolded him, but she couldn't help it. She was conscious of the onset of self-recrimination – as though Denny were already dead and the work of mourning him had started. Had something inside her accepted the finality of it already?

‘This gives us a clue to what Denny was thinking about when he started out,' Peter said. ‘He gets these chalks from the pavement artist –the one he calls Rembrandt. He saw him today. Perhaps he's gone to see him again. Rembrandt might have invited him round – '

‘But Denny never goes out at night –' She broke off the protest. It no longer applied. Denny
had
gone out tonight. Somewhere. ‘Do you really think so?'

‘Depend on it.' He was jubilant. ‘Denny was sitting here, thinking about what he was going to do, and his hand just followed the train of his thought – and left a trail for us. That's where we'll find him. At Rembrandt's.'

‘Rembrandt's.' His assurance carried her along. ‘But do you know where that is?'

‘It's not too far from here,' he said. ‘Not too near, but not too far. Denny could have made it easily. Come on –' he pocketed the bit of chalk –‘we'll find him there.'

Outside, on the river, a barge hooted with the haunting, mournful note only achieved by boats and trains en route to some lonely destination through unperceived surroundings. The banshee note of a lost soul calling out for rest and forgiveness.

Merelda shivered. He was quick to note it. ‘Are you still cold? Shall we have another log on the fire?'

‘No, it's all right.' She gave a light laugh. ‘Just... someone walked over my grave.' (
Or yours.
) She laughed again.

‘Don't say things like that!' But he smiled at her laughter. So long as she was happy, he was pleased. ‘We'll have another log, anyway. Fire's dying down.'

(
Everything's dying tonight
) She stilled the burble of laughter – he'd think she was hysterical. Perhaps she was. So close to the end of her goal, the triumph was hard to contain. But she must call upon the discipline she had learned so well and keep it within bounds. The hardest scenes were yet to be played. She must be ready for them.

Sparks shot up the chimney like fireworks as he tossed more wood on to the dying blaze. ‘That's better.' He poked at the fire and stood up, dusting his hands. ‘Shall we have the curtains drawn, then ? That will make it seem warmer, too.' He started for the window.

‘No, don't,' she said quickly. She wanted to be able to glance out occasionally and see if there were any sign of Denny. ‘I ... I like the view.'

‘Too dark to see much.' But he turned away, leaving the curtains open.

‘You can see a lot.' She crossed to the window and stood looking out. The dark glass reflected her as a wraith floating in mid-air. She leaned forward, head touching the window, and wraith and flesh united, Siamese twins, conjoined at the forehead.

Below, a Rolls glided silently along the deserted street. A thin white mist was rising from the river. Shadows stirred, advancing and retreating as a faint wind rippled the trees. Too soon? Surely, it must be time for him to come – if he were coming at all tonight.

‘Aye.' A bulkier wraith swam up beside the slender one hovering in the dark glass, there were quadruplets now, joined at hips and shoulders. ‘You can see more than you'd expect. Not for long, though. Getting foggy.'

Was there movement at the far end of the street? A darker shadow just beyond the street lamp? And had it been noticed? She glanced sideways quickly, but Keith's face was impassive as he stared out at the river. In any case, he could place no construction on the meaning of that shadow. Not until it came nearer.

She turned away abruptly. He followed, as she had intended. He must be kept away from the window too. He must not look out to recognize that shambling figure advancing down the street, or groping for the key beneath the flower-pot. He must not be forewarned ... forearmed.

She chose the couch, rather than a chair, knowing that he would sit beside her. He did so immediately, no further interest in the window. She was the beacon which drew him. It was all going well, just as she had planned.

She leaned back against the cushions, smiling, and allowed herself a faint contented sigh.

‘Happy, lass?'

‘Oh, yes,' she said truthfully. ‘I can't remember when I've been so happy.'

‘Eh, lass.' He reached for her hand. ‘So am I.'

She squeezed his hand abstractedly, concentrating on what was happening outside. Had Denny had time to reach the steps yet? Would he find the key? ... The gun?

Nervously, her other hand crept up to pluck at a ruffle on her negligee. A thread gave unexpectedly and the lace began to drop away from the chiffon. She pulled her hand away, then, after a moment's reflection, let it creep back. Who would know that the lace hanging loose was the result of a pulled thread and not a struggle? It could look very sinister to a simple mentality. She began to work at separating the lace.

Was that a sound from outside? A grating of earthenware flower-pot against cement steps? She glanced at Keith again. Was it noticeable, or only audible to her because she was waiting, attuned to the sound? And if Denny were so noisy just retrieving the key, how much noise would he make opening the front door ... pulling out the desk drawer for the gun ... coming up the stairs?

The record ended and machinery whirred softly as the needle arm swung back to repeat. Keith stirred. ‘Want to hear it again?'

‘Not really,' she said. ‘Play something else. That American rock musical – I'd like to hear that.'

He made a face, but went to pull the record from the rack and set it on the turntable.

She relaxed as the first grinding, blaring notes shook through the room. That would cover any lesser noise from the floor below. Workmen could tear up the street outside with hydraulic drills and it would not be noticed until the record ended. Denny could be as noisy as he liked now.

Leaving the house was the worst. Running the gauntlet of the curious, huddled outside the gate. Drawn by the unusual activity, the ambulance, the uniformed police coming and going at the O'Magnon house, a cordon of neighbours, reinforced by idlers and passers-by, stood watch. An emergency always enlivened the street, bringing out faces seldom seen except at Christmas and Easter Masses. The old and the infirm predominated, gleeful at having witnessed another disaster, eager to discover who it was they had outlived this time. Even the indifferent, anxious to escape involvement but still curious, lingered in half-open doors, cardigans thrown over their shoulders, ready to advance if it should seem worth their while, but equally ready to withdraw and slam the door safely behind them if there were any danger they might be asked to do something.

She tried to close her ears to the comments and Peter took her arm and hurried her through the crowd. ‘What's happened?' ‘Are they taking her away, too, then?' ‘Is it the boy?' ‘Taken a fit, has he?' Tried to do away with his mother, they say.'  ‘Did he hurt the girl, too?' ‘She's walking all right.' ‘Doesn't look too well.' ‘Shock, probably.'

Peter's grasp tightened on her arm. Once he slowed, as though he might be going to stop and order the crowd to disperse. Then he urged her forward at a quicker pace, to get her beyond the range of the voices. Strange, the way people seemed to think they couldn't be heard as they commented on her even while she was passing them. Did they imagine they were invisible and inaudible? Or did they think that being in the centre of the drama cut her off from the rest of humanity in some way, enclosed her behind a glass wall?

They were beyond the gathering at the gate now, but, as she looked upwards at Peter's set face swiftly, he was still hurrying her along. It was kind of him, but did he really think she was hearing anything she hadn't heard before? Anything she hadn't lived with all her life?

Because it always came back to Denny. Sadly, inevitably. In a way, Aunt Vera was the voice of the community. The spokesman for all their half-formed fears and terrors of the unknown. And Denny was an unknown force to them. Poor Denny, just because he had grown so big, while his mind remained so small. Poor, innocent Denny. Except that, for them, innocence ended at a height of three-foot-six. After that, menace began to grow.

‘Are you all right?' Peter asked anxiously. She nodded. They were well past the crowd now, but twitching curtains in the windows along the street still marked their progress.

‘We turn here,' he said. Thankfully, they were past all the curious now, plunging into the anonymity of dark uncaring streets. ‘It isn't far,' he assured her.

Dampness and swirling wisps of mist told her they were nearing the river. Instinctively, she looked around. The river had always held a fatal fascination for Denny. (
Fatal? Oh, no – not that. Not a sodden bundle of clothes bobbing along on the currents of the river, to be pulled out by some boatman, or cast up by the tide on some slimy, muddy bank
) Denny was with Rembrandt. He had to be. Safe and warm, talking happily to one of his friends. And they'd take him to hospital – get him there in time.

‘Nearly there,' he encouraged. They turned inland, but the spectre of the river still haunted her. A barge hooted mournfully, the sound eddying along with the mist and damp. She shivered, although she was not conscious of the cold. She was beyond physical discomfort.

Rembrandt lived in a basement flat in the middle of a decaying Georgian terrace. Sheila kept close to the railings as they walked down the street, peering down into the stairwells of other basement flats along the way. If Denny had been dizzy as he came this way, lost his balance, he could have fallen into one of them. Any pit of black shadows might conceal a sleeping – dying – Denny.

‘Mind the steps, they're crumbling away to nothing. All these places need to be restored-or pulled down.' Peter led the way down steps into the dark area and rang the bell. Nothing happened. He tried again, then gave it up and knocked.

They could see light through a gap where the curtains didn't quite meet. At least, someone was here. Sheila hadn't realized how much she had been fearing a dead end until she felt some of the tension ease.

When the door opened abruptly, she was unprepared. She had expected an elderly man –pavement artists were a vanishing tribe – not someone young and really rather handsome. Nor had she expected someone not quite sober. There was a glass of red wine in his hand and he gestured with it as he waved them into the flat. A new worry occupied her suddenly. He hadn't been teaching Denny to drink, had he?

‘Enter, friends,' he said. ‘You
are
my friends, aren't you?' He squinted at them muzzily. ‘Of course, you are. All the world is my friend tonight.'

The hallway was dark and cramped. They hurried past him into the big front room. It was totally a studio, canvases piled in corners and leaning against every wall. Only a couch in one corner near an open doorway, through which could be seen a tiny kitchen, was a concession to the necessary mechanics of living. The room seemed to be crowded with people staring out from canvases; jammed with scenes and landscapes of other worlds.

‘Excuse the mess,' Rembrandt said pleasantly, although he now seemed faintly puzzled. ‘An informal selection committee of one has been sitting, choosing pictures for an exhibition. That's right – an exhibition. The letter came this afternoon. A West End gallery has agreed to give me a one man show. It may be the beginning of –'

‘Where's Denny?' Sheila interrupted. He'd go on all night if she didn't, you could see that. He was so bound up in himself that he'd no thought for anyone else right now. And she had a dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that had begun when she looked around this room and saw no other living soul in it.

‘I beg your pardon?' He blinked and seemed to see them for the first time. Intruders into his reverie. Real, not some imaginary people to applaud his story. ‘Do I know you?'

‘You know me,' Peter said.

‘So, I do. So, I do.' Rembrandt came closer, looking at him sharply. ‘It's old “Move along” himself. Well–' he pulled a letter from among a stack of canvases and waved it triumphantly – ‘I'm moving along now. Next stop, the West End – and not on any pavement, either.'

‘Congratulations,' Peter said. ‘You'll do well, I'm –'

‘Where's Denny?' Sheila demanded urgently. Precious time was ticking away. Irretrievable time. Moments which could mean the difference between life and death for Denny.

‘Denny?' Rembrandt turned to her blankly.

‘Dennis O'Magnon. This is Miss O'Magnon – his sister, Sheila.' Peter made the introduction. ‘We're looking for Denny. Denny –
you
know.'