The Stranger Came (38 page)

She
touched
the
blank
place
where
the
Theatre
Moliere
and
its
comfort
of
bright
colours
had
shone
down
on
her
in
Maitland's
arms.
Months
ago
she
had
folded
it
into
a
bin
sack
in
the
kitchen
and
then,
for
fear
anyone
should
ask
her
why,
poured
rubbish
on
to
hide
it
from
view.
It
had
been
warm
then
on
summer
afternoons,
and
thinking
of
how
it
had
been
she
went
restlessly
into
the
hall.
From
beyond
the
door
of
his
room,
which
was
not
quite
shut,
came
the
deep
measured
note
of
Monty
Norman's
voice.
Horribly
startled
as
if
she
had
been
spied
on,
she
stood
with
her
fingers
pressed
across
her
lips
listening.

'Down
on
his
knees
digging
into
her,
made
me
laugh.
Many's
the
laugh
I've
had
with
Georgie.
I
wonder
what
they
did
to
him.
Too
fat
to
run
away
–
poor
bloody
Georgie.’

His
voice
came
and
went
and
there
was
the
tramp
of
his
feet
as
he
moved
about
the
room.
She
pushed
at
the
door,
just
with
one
finger
gently
so
that
she
could
peep
inside;
impulsively,
out
of
the
silly
feeling
he
had
no
right
to
be
there.

Back
to
her
he
was
talking
to
himself,
leaning
forward with
both
hands
on
the
iron
rail
at
the
end
of
the
bed.

'Georgie
brought
it
on
himself.
Brought
that
young
bastard
in
without
a
by
your
leave.
Even
so,
who's
to
say
Georgie
Clarke
isn't
the
lucky
one?
He's
not
stuck
in
this
hole.
What
do
you
say?
You
say
nothing,
bloody
nothing –'

And
on
the
last
word,
a
little
explosion
of
anger,
he
had
pushed
himself
upright
–
and
she
glimpsed
the
bed
and
recognised
the
woman
lying
outstretched
on
it.
Seeing
Sophie,
his
face
loosened
with
astonishment
and
then
with a
shrug
he
said,
'I'm
complaining
about
having
to
live
in
this
dump.’

Although
there
was
no
hysteria
in
her
laughter
but
a rich
easiness
of
relief,
she
could
not
stop
even
when
she
discovered
that
Monty
Norman
had
followed
her
back
into
her
room.

'Was
there
something
you
wanted?'

At
the
ridiculous
politeness
of
his
question
the
laughter
welled
up
filling
her
mouth
and
spilling
out
in
bright
shards.

'I
think
you've
made
a
mistake,'
he
said.

She
remembered
his
terrible
contained
anger
in
the
bar
when
the
reporter
woman
–
what was her name? What was her name?
–
had
humiliated
him.
Maitland
had
thought
it
funny
when
she
told
him.
He
had
not
seen
Norman's
anger
or
how
his
hand
holding
the
glass
had
trembled.
But
still
the
laughter
came,
thinner
and
metallic
with
the
taste
of
fear.

'Come
and
see,'
he
said,
and
walked
away
not
doubting that
she
would
follow.

She
had
not
expected
Lucy
Ure
still
to
be
lying
on
the
bed.
It
was
as
if
she
had
intruded
upon
an
act
of
death
not
sex.
But
the
murderer
said,
'I'm
glad
you've
stopped
laughing.
I
was
beginning
to
worry
about
you.’

'What
have
you
done
to
her?
Is
she
drugged?'

He
gave
an
odd
snorting
grunt
of
amusement.
'What
an
imagination
you
have!'

'Her
eyes
are
open,
but
she's
not
looking.
What's
wrong
with
her?'

'No
drugs,'
Monty
Norman
said.
'Lucy,
get
up
and
make
yourself
comfortable
in
the
chair…
You
see?
She
can
hear.
She
moves.
After
all,
there's
nothing
terrible
happening.’

Yet
to
Sophie
there
was
something
unnatural
in
her
rising
so
responsively
and
in
the
manner
of
her
sitting,
upright
but
flopped
and
slack
in
the
shoulders.

'Mrs
Ure?'
she
asked
hesitantly.
'You
said
she
could
hear –
but
she
can’t!'

He
turned
his
glance
from
one
woman
to
the
other.
'You
know
Professor
Ure's
wife
is
not
well?'

'No.
I
never
heard
anyone
say
that.’

'Of
course,
there's
no
reason
why
you
should
know.’
He
paused,
and
she
made
a
movement
of
her
head
as
if
to
agree.
'Have
you
been
to
their
home?'

She
shook
her
head
again.
She
had
no
reason
to
go;
no
reason.
It
was
as
if
he
was
taunting
her
with
her
exclusion
from
Maitland's
life.