Walking in Darkness (33 page)

‘She says her mother is dying,’ she burst out, the words coming from her own pain and uncertainty.

‘Dying?’ he repeated as if the word was meaningless to him. ‘What do you mean, dying?’

What was the matter with him? she desperately thought. Paul had always been so quick-witted. His mind had worked faster than the speed of light; she had been in awe of his intelligence. Yet now, tonight, that mind of his was slow and sluggish, as if he couldn’t make sense of anything she said. She hadn’t expected her news to shock him this much – or was he busy thinking about something else, something he hadn’t told her about? All week he had had something on his mind, he had kept drifting off into deep concentration, frowning and silent; there had been phonecalls at odd hours, business meetings in London that kept him there until very late. If their hours in bed together hadn’t been so intensely passionate Cathy might have begun to suspect there was another woman, but she knew it couldn’t be that. She knew better than to ask if anything was wrong – Paul never discussed business with her.

Looking at him anxiously, she said, ‘She’s apparently got leukaemia. Sophie says the doctors have given her three months at the outside.’

Paul walked stiffly over to the fire and leaned on the mantelpiece, his head bent down, staring into the flames.

Cathy couldn’t bear any more. ‘Oh, let’s not talk about them, they’re nothing to do with us, forget them.’ Her body was throbbing with the urgent hunger she always felt when they were alone. She whispered pleadingly, ‘I’m tired, I want to go to bed. Let’s go to bed, make love to me, darling.’

If he would make love to her she could forget Sophie and all these doubts and uncertainties; her only real certainty would be Paul’s body, her own, moving together in perfect harmony.

He didn’t turn round, or look at her, but she felt the emotion in him, and had never felt anything like that from him before – a dark, brooding rage which was like a knife thrust in her.

‘Don’t turn away from me!’ she burst out in anguish. ‘It isn’t true, she was telling a pack of lies! Paul, I need you more than ever now.’ She couldn’t stop tears stealing down her face, her body was shaking with sobs. ‘I’m frightened. I know who I am, but . . . but she’s knocked me off-balance, I’m so confused and miserable.’

‘You’d better go up to bed,’ he said heavily. ‘Go on, Cathy; get some sleep, that’s what you need. Maybe you should take one of those pills the doctor gave you for her.’ He sat down in one of the armchairs near the fire, still not looking at her.

‘Come with me,’ she begged, going over to kneel down beside him and leaning her body on his knees, clinging like ivy, putting a coaxing hand on his thigh, stroking the tense muscles under her fingers.

He pushed her away, didn’t look at her, his eyes on the fire. ‘I’m not sleepy, I have some work to do, too, some overseas phonecalls to make. I’ll get Nora to bring me some sandwiches and coffee and work while I eat.’

The rejection made her feel sick. Humiliated, wounded, she got up, stumbled and almost fell on to the couch, knocking Sophie’s photographs to the floor. They scattered like autumn leaves across the carpet, some face up, the wraith-like forms in them shimmering in the firelight. Paul turned his head to stare at them, his brows jerking together.

‘What are those?’

She had forgotten them. Her throat rough with unshed tears, she muttered, ‘Nothing. She brought them, claimed they were photocopies of old family photos – but they’re fakes, obvious fakes.’

Paul leaned down from his chair, picked up some of the prints, straightened, holding one of them in his hands, staring at it. She saw it was the one which had startled Cathy herself; the picture of someone who looked amazingly like her, in an old-fashioned wedding-dress.

‘It could be you!’ Paul said in a voice that sounded as if it came from the pit of his stomach. ‘God, you’re the image of her.’

Terrified, she argued, ‘It’s easy to fake a photo! All they would have to do is find a good reproduction of a photo of me in a magazine, stick my head on an old picture of someone in a wedding-dress, and photocopy that, then photograph that. Paul, can’t you see what’s going on? You of all people know how easy it is to fool people. It’s all part of this con trick, a dirty-tricks campaign by Dad’s enemies back home. Dad will deal with it when he gets here in the morning.’

But Paul wasn’t listening; he was staring fixedly at that picture, his face drawn and grey. What was he thinking? If only he would talk to her, tell her how he felt, but he was shutting her out and Cathy felt so miserable she wanted to die.

‘Please, Paul, come to bed.’ She moved towards him again, her eyes burning with fatigue and passion. Their bodies knew each other so well, if she could only get him into bed . . . but his voice stopped her in her tracks, the tone of it harsh and hostile.

‘For God’s sake, do as you’re told, Cathy! Go to bed and leave me alone!’

She put a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob of shock and hurt, then turned and ran out of the room just as the phone began to ring. Paul ignored it, knowing it would be answered by one of the staff.

He heard Cathy crying as she ran through the hall and shut his eyes, groaning aloud. Opening his eyes again, he looked down at the photocopies he held, made a low, bitter sound and suddenly flung all the pictures into the fire, grabbed hold of a brass poker and held them down as they crackled and blazed into flame, watching intently as the strange, eerie faces shrivelled into black ash.

Vladimir stood in the centre of the room Steve had been allocated by the landlady and experimentally shifted his feet, his bulky body swaying with elephantine grace. The floorboards creaked under his weight.

‘Old, very old, this isn’t Disneyland, it’s real,’ he said, beaming. ‘I like this place – did you notice the sign saying real ale? What did that mean, I wonder? Is this an English joke? Are they telling us something? That some of their beers are not real, huh? I shall try them all, one by one, I like to do this research. When I am home I shall write an article on English beers.’

Steve wasn’t listening; he sat down on his bed and picked up the phone placed on the wall beside the bed. ‘I’m going to try to talk to Sophie.’

He pulled a small addressbook out of his inside pocket, flicked over the pages and then dialled. ‘Hello? Arbory House? I’m told Miss Narodni is staying there – could I speak to her, please?’ He listened, frowning. ‘Asleep? I see. Could I speak to Mrs Brougham, then, please? My name is Colbourne – Steve Colbourne. I’m an old friend from the States. Yes, I’ll hold.’

Vladimir wandered over to look out of the diamond-paned windows, stared across the village green towards the high, iron gates.

‘There’s a car parked over there, with two men in it,’ he told Steve over his shoulder.

‘And?’ queried Steve, looking round at him.

‘They have that look . . . you get to recognize it, all secret service men have it, they think they are above the law and it shows. I can smell them from here. The car’s American.’

He had Steve’s full attention now. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Waiting, watching. What they do best. I’d guess they’re Senator Gowrie’s men, watching over his daughter.’

‘Or waiting to get their hands on Sophie,’ Steve said grimly.

Cathy was almost at the top of the stairs when the housekeeper quietly said her name from the hall. Reluctantly, Cathy looked back at her.

‘There’s a gentleman on the phone, American, madam; a Mr Colbourne, says he’s an old friend of yours.’

Cathy hesitated, then said, ‘Put the call through to my bedroom, please.’

She heard a movement from the sitting-room and glanced down over the polished banisters. Paul stood in the doorway of the room she had just left; his eyes had a deep, glowing darkness like hot coals in a dying fire. He had always been jealous of Steve – he knew all about their relationship and had resented it. She looked eagerly for a betrayal of that old jealousy now, but if he was angry about Steve ringing her he didn’t utter a syllable. Cathy sighed, and went on up the stairs.

As she entered her bedroom the phone beside the bed began to purr quietly; she picked it up.

‘Yes? Yes, put him through.’ She heard the click that meant the line had been switched through, the echoing click as her housekeeper put down the phone she was holding. Only then did Cathy say, ‘Hello? Steve?’

‘Yes. Hi, Cathy. How are you?’

‘Fine, and you?’

The polite ritual of greeting calmed her a little. It made the unreality seem less crazy, re-established her sense of identity for the moment. That was why she had agreed to talk to him, she realized; she had known him so long, most of her life. She was sure that Steve would make everything seem normal again.

‘Fine,’ he said offhandedly, then plunged into staccato speech. ‘Cathy, is Sophie OK?’

‘Yes, she’s taken a sedative and gone to bed. She needs a good night’s sleep.’

‘What happened here tonight, Cathy?’ he urgently asked. ‘Look, I’m over here at this pub . . . what the hell was it called, Vlad? Oh, yeah, the Green Man. Could I come over to talk to you, Cathy?’

Her nerves jangled. Sharply she said, ‘Do you know what time of night it is? I’m just going to bed! What do you mean, Vlad? What’s a Vlad?’

‘Not a what – a who. He’s Sophie’s boss, Vladimir, he’s here with me. He’s worried about her, too, he flew all the way from Prague to find out what was going on.’

Why had he done that? she wondered. Did he know this story of Sophie’s too? How many other people knew? And this Czech guy was a journalist, ran a news agency – how long before the story hit the newsstands in the States? Would they wake up tomorrow to find it worldwide front-page news?

Distraught, she snapped, ‘Well, he can’t see her tonight, either.’

‘Cathy, we’re anxious about her –’

‘Have you put any of Sophie’s garbage on tape? Have you sent the story back home?’

‘No, Cathy. I’m not the gutter press. I’d want proof of what she claims before I broadcast it.’

‘There won’t be any proof! It’s all lies – and if you attack my father I’ll never speak to you again. And don’t forget that my grandfather has friends in very high places.’

‘Don’t threaten me, Cathy – I haven’t threatened you! I told you, I’m just worried about Sophie.’

‘You don’t need to be while she’s under my roof. I’ll make sure nothing else happens to her tonight. She’s safe here.’

‘I damned well hope she is, Cathy!’ There was a brief silence, then he flatly asked, ‘She told you?’

‘Told me what?’ she fenced.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Are you in love with her?’ Cathy asked instead of answering his question.

She heard Steve draw breath, then he laughed, sounding embarrassed. ‘I guess,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe.’

Cathy gave a wry little smile. He had been in love with her for a long time, she had hurt him, made him bitter and cynical – now he was in love with this strange girl who kept insisting she was her sister. Was that why Steve had fallen for Sophie, been attracted to her? Had it seemed like fate to him? Cathy was disturbed by that, by the very idea of fate. She had lost control of her life today; once she had thought she had her life smoothly, perfectly working as she wished – all her dreams come true, this beautiful house, a man who was everything she had ever longed for. Now fate seemed to be controlling her; she felt helpless to do anything about what was happening, she didn’t even know what she wanted to do, what she thought. She doubted everything she had once believed certain, including Paul. The ground was no longer solid under her feet. She had a terrible feeling that she was going to lose everything. Including Paul.

Wearily, she said, ‘Come to breakfast tomorrow, Steve. I’ll tell my gatekeeper to let you in – just you, not this Czech guy. He can see Sophie later.’

Vladimir and Steve sat up in a quiet corner of the bar until closing time, first eating ham sandwiches with home-baked ham and strong English mustard, served with a small salad on the side, and then drinking their way through the various beers the pub stocked. Vladimir was enjoying himself; he talked excitedly about his life, and then, encouraged by Steve, about Sophie’s family, her home village, her mother, stepfather and two half-brothers.

‘But it was her father I knew best – Pavel was not someone you forget. I was really shocked, huh? When I was told he’d been killed, I couldn’t believe it. The Russians . . . those bastards.’ He drained his glass. ‘I need another one! You, too?’

‘No, thanks. This will last me for a while.’ Steve didn’t want to drink too much. He was beginning to get a healthy respect for Vladimir’s capacity – the man could put it away faster than anyone he knew, and without showing any signs of being drunk! How many pints had he drunk so far? Old journalists were often lushes, but they usually disintegrated as the stuff got to them, but that wasn’t happening with Vladimir. He still seemed as sharp as a tin-tack. He could probably write great copy after drinking everyone else under the table! Some reporters were like that. The more they drank the better they wrote. Stone-cold sober, they turned in boring garbage. Vladimir was talking a blue streak, and still making perfect sense!

Coming back with a pint of beer, Vladimir held it up to the light to inspect it. ‘More real ale. You know what they call this? Thunderbox. Why? I asked the woman and she just kept laughing and wouldn’t say. Well, looks good. Nice colour.’ He lifted the glass to his nostrils and inhaled noisily. ‘Mmm . . . smells good, too. Lots of hops, a sweetish malt. I like this smell. But let’s see what it tastes like, huh?’

Smiling, Steve watched him sip, his eyes closed.

‘Mmm,’ he breathed, ecstatically. ‘Yes, that hits the spot.’

Steve laughed. ‘Where did you say you learnt your English?’

‘From Americans,’ Vladimir said. ‘At Prague University they had an American tutor when I was young; a Communist who had come to Prague to admire our system. Ha!’

‘Poor sap!’ Steve said, and Vladimir grinned.

‘As someone once said in an American film I saw . . . you said a cotton-picking mouthful, boy!’ He drank some more, wiped the back of his hand across his foam-speckled moustache. ‘The man was an idiot, but he was a good teacher; he was one of the first to leave in 1968 – as the Russians came in, he left. Not quite so keen on Communism as he’d thought, nuh?’