Home through the Dark (16 page)

I had no choice but to believe him. After all, I'd never been able to see how he fitted in with the kidnapping, and his reasons for such intervention as he had made were plausible enough; all of which, while it settled my mind in one direction, gave rise to an entirely new problem of a more personal nature. This quiet, softly lit room, allied with my own extreme lassitude, was not the ideal setting in which to resolve it.

The silence lengthened between us and I steeled myself to break it. “Please don't ask me any more, Marcus. There is something, of course, it's pointless to deny it, but it's not my secret and I can't tell you. Actually, I rather wish I could.”

He was standing looking down at me during this stiff little speech, but again, since he was above the lamplight, I couldn't see the expression on his face.

“One last question, then. Does your husband fit into it at all?”

“Vaguely.”

“So the business he wanted to discuss with you wasn't divorce?”

“No.”

He seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind. “How was the play?”

“It went off very well.”

“And the Master was impressed?” He didn't seem able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice when he referred to Carl.

I remembered Carl's opinion of him – “bloody officious.”

“He was, yes,” I replied steadily.

“I'm surprised you didn't go back with him. Or is he leaving you here to do the dirty work for him?”

“Marcus –”

“Sorry, I've exceeded my quota of questions, haven't I? I'll shut up and put a record on instead.” He walked quickly over to the stereo set and a moment later the quiet room had settled back into a listening silence as music throbbed from the dark corners. We sat in almost complete silence for the next twenty minutes or so, our thoughts swirling and dipping aimlessly against the background of the music. When the record at last ended, I turned my head to find Marcus watching me. “You know,” he said softly, “there's a restful quality about you, with that wide brow and smooth hair. You've been on edge ever since I met you, but it still shines through. I can quite see the attraction you must have for Clements, surrounded as he is by all that synthetic glamour. You remind me of the old song, ‘You'd be so nice to come home to.'” He gave a short laugh. “And that, lady, is dangerous thinking, believe me! I'd better go and see to the meal.”

“Can I help?” I asked a little awkwardly.

“Certainly not. This is your evening off. You might turn the record over, though.”

I did so, then wandered over to the window. It was strange to look out on a different view of the park and from a greater height. Lights showed in the windows of the houses at the far side. I wondered with a tremor of apprehension whether a vigilant figure was still concealed in the shadows. It was oddly comforting to know that Marcus was after all concerned for my safety. I looked across at him as he moved about the kitchen, aware of a faint regret. He had been astute in deploring my continuing fixation about Carl. Without that safeguard I knew I would have been attracted to him.

“Why did your wife divorce you?” I asked suddenly, without stopping to think. His hand paused fractionally over the rice pan and I said quickly, “I'm sorry, Marcus, I've no right whatever –”

“It's all right.” He carried the pan to the sink and poured the contents into a colander. The kitchen was as tidy and spotless as a ship's galley, despite the dinner preparations in progress. I wondered for a moment whether he had taken my apology as a negation of the question, but he went on, “Incompatibility, really. Not that it's called that over here. I think the term is ‘irretrievable breakdown' of the marriage. Same thing, at least in our case.”

“Does it upset you to talk about her?”

“Not in the slightest. We married very young and for all the wrong reasons. She was pretty, gay, sociable; I was studious, quiet and home-loving. Hopeless.”

He brought the dishes round the end of the counter and laid them on mats on the mahogany table. “And added to all that, I was studying for exams and she just couldn't understand that we couldn't go dancing every night. Oh, it was largely my fault, I suppose. I wasn't prepared to make allowances when she behaved like a spoiled child. It got to the stage when I dreaded going home at night.”

“I'm sorry,” I said quietly.

“I suppose it's because of Angela that I don't care for Mrs. Foss. She's much the same type, chattering endlessly, irresponsible, the eternal little girl. It leaves me cold.”

“I think you're being rather unfair to Sarah.”

“No doubt, but I can't see it worrying her. She's probably convinced that I murdered my wife, anyway.” He passed me a plate of steaming goulash. “The fact of the matter is that I'm a thoroughly unsociable devil and never at my best with women anyway. I just can't seem to relax with them, somehow.”

“You seem pretty relaxed now.”

“Yes,” he said briefly, “that was the point I made earlier. Would you like to help yourself to rice?”

We ate in silence for a while and then, apropos the goulash, started talking about Europe and the places we had visited. It seemed the safest topic we had found yet and I prolonged it as much as possible. We had fruit and cheese and Marcus made an enormous jug of coffee which we carried back to the fire. The music still played sensuously in the background and I knew it would not be wise to stay much longer. There were lengthening gaps now in the conversation and the warmth and food had made me sleepy. At last, reluctantly, I stood up. Across the hearth Marcus also rose to his feet. I said, “Marcus, it's been lovely, but –”

He took two steps towards me and without conscious thought I was in his arms, my treacherous body instantly responsive after its long abstinence from Carl. At some level of consciousness I was ashamed of the pleasure Marcus's kisses were giving me, at another more basic level I wanted them never to stop. Without warning, reason suddenly asserted itself and I wrenched my mouth free of his. “Marcus, I must go – I have to –”

His hands dropped away. His breathing was ragged and uneven. After a moment he said flatly, “If you must, you must.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“Well, don't cry!” he said harshly. “All I ask is, don't cry.”

He moved quickly away and stood staring out of the window with his hands driven deep down into his pockets while I tried weakly to marshal what resources I had to enable myself to regain the lonely safety of my own flat. God help me, I wanted to stay.

Over by the window Marcus made a sudden startled movement. “Ginnie, come here.” I hurried across and he put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, down to the left.” His voice was taut with excitement. “Do you see? There's someone on your balcony!”

I stiffened under his hand. “Oh no!” But I too could see the flutter of movement against the white painted scrollwork. From this angle only the near corner of the drawing-room balcony was visible. Marcus turned suddenly.

“I'm going down. You stay here.”

“No, Marcus, you mustn't! Wait till he's gone, please!”

“Nonsense. You're not to move, do you hear?” And the next moment he had disappeared, leaving me trembling at the window with the feel of his kisses still on my mouth.

With held breath I waited long minutes until, down to my left, I saw him emerge and make his way in the shadows of the building round the corner of the wing. After that everything happened at once. There was a scuffle, a muffled shout and then a dark figure vaulted lightly over the balustrade and disappeared into the darkness. Frozen with fear, I waited to see what had become of Marcus. It was endless minutes later that I saw him appear, and gave a little sob of relief. He came back slowly and I saw that he was limping. I turned and sped down the stairs, meeting him at the bottom.

“Marcus, are you all right? What happened?”

“He got away, blast him.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not much.” He put a hand up to the corner of his mouth and it came away dark with blood.

“Let me bathe it for you.”

“No need; I can manage. Have you got your bag and things?”

“No, I just ran down –”

“Get them, will you?” He leaned against the newel post breathing deeply while I hurried back up the stairs. The music was still playing and the cigarette he'd dropped in the ashtray when I had said I must go home still smouldered there. I grabbed my bag and fled from the room before its tentacles could reach out for me again.

As I rejoined him he silently held out his hand for my key and went ahead of me into the flat. The bare boards in the hall were bleak and unwelcoming, but they were almost dry and the dusty smell of long unused heating met our nostrils. At least the atmosphere was warm. Swiftly Marcus went through every room, opening cupboard doors, bending to look under the bed. He tested the catches on all the windows and checked that the lock on the back door had not been tampered with. When at last he was satisfied, he turned towards me, but he was still not quite meeting my eyes. “Will you be all right here alone?”

“Yes, quite, thank you.”

“You wouldn't rather I stayed? In the drawing room, naturally.”

“I'll be all right,” I repeated tremulously, “but can't I at least bathe that cut for you?”

“It's nothing, I tell you. As long as you're sure, then, I'll go, but if you hear anything, anything at all, ring me and I'll be here inside two minutes. The number's 821 – got it?”

“821,” I repeated mechanically. “Marcus, thank you so much for –”

“Good night, Ginnie.” The door closed behind him on a final little click. I stood in the hall staring at it while the tears rained silently down my face. Then, wearily, I slid the bolt into position.

Suppose, I thought suddenly, going into the bedroom, that I hadn't been with Marcus but in my own flat when the intruder arrived? What would have happened then? The unaccustomed warmth from the radiator was soothing, but it didn't prevent the shivering which had taken hold of me, rattling my teeth with a ferocity that was almost pain. Reaction, I told myself judderingly, from all the strains and stresses of the last week, and the emotional maelstrom with Marcus; but I couldn't trust myself to think about Marcus yet; not about Marcus, nor Carl, and certainly not about the unwelcome visitor on the balcony. Zombie-like I moved through the routine of washing and undressing and, with the last ounce of my strength, slid thankfully into bed. I only just managed to reach out a grouping hand to switch off the lamp before sleep, swift, total and overwhelming, claimed me utterly.

MARCUS phoned soon after ten the next morning. His voice was clipped and businesslike. “Everything all right? No further disturbances?”

“Not a thing, but I slept so heavily it would have taken a lot to wake me.”

“You're lucky,” he said shortly. “Ginnie, about last night. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you; it won't happen again.” He gave a brief laugh. “I imagine you'll be careful in future not to leave your washing machine on. It can land you in deeper water than you realize!”

I started to speak but his voice overrode mine. “The real reason I'm phoning is to let you know I'm going to report the incident to the police. I'm not prepared to accept the responsibility of it.”

I said quickly, “Oh, Marcus, please don't! Really, I'm sure it wasn't as serious as you thought.”

“It was enough to leave me with a stiff jaw and a wrenched ankle,” he said tightly, “which seems to me to go beyond the definition of playing games.”

“I'm not trying to belittle what you did, I'm very grateful, but I honestly don't think he would actually have hurt me. It's a war of nerves, intimidation.” I hesitated. “Did you – were you able to get a glimpse of him?”

“Not so much a glimpse as an impression. It certainly wasn't one of the old fuddy-duddies from the park, I assure you. I wouldn't have had any difficulty catching up with them. This was a young man, tall and strong and for some reason exceptionally anxious that I shouldn't see his face – almost as though he thought he might be recognized.”

Stephen, as I'd thought. The men in the park were probably just paid to sit there, without being told why. The more dubious occurrences, the doorbells and torch beams in the night, would have to be Stephen's own responsibility. I couldn't imagine what he hoped to gain by climbing on my balcony, unless it was merely stepping up the terror campaign. I was obviously proving harder to shake off than he'd hoped.

Marcus's voice broke in on my musings. “Ginnie, what the hell am I going to do with you? You won't tell me what this is all about, you won't let me go to the police. Suppose something does happen to you, that you've been underestimating them, whoever they are. How do you think I'd feel then?”

“I'm hoping that it won't go on much longer now, but there's nothing the police could do except keep an eye on the place.”

“At the moment I'd even settle for that. You're not in trouble with them yourself, are you?” His voice had sharpened as the idea suddenly struck him.

“No, of course not.”

“Then I can't see why you won't let me contact them. Has anything like this ever happened before?”

“Not exactly like this.”

“What was it?”

“My doorbell did ring once, in the middle of the night.” He swore under his breath. “And Carl knows you're mixed up in all this?”

“He knows,” I said bleakly and a little unfairly.

“Well, I sure as hell wouldn't allow you to be, in his place, but that's neither here nor there. You do promise to contact me if you're at all worried? You won't let that episode last night stand in the way?”

“I'll contact you.”