Shadow Play (32 page)

In the corridor, waiting for the lift, he could hear a chorus of goodbyes.

 

‘W
hat I can't understand,' said Geoffrey Bailey, corkscrew in hand, pretending to be calm, ‘is why you never told me. You told me about missing files, the way you sometimes tell me about work. You had me harnessed to that damn computer because you were too scared to go into the basement, you tell me nothing—'

‘That isn't quite fair. I might have told you all about Rose if I'd known, but I didn't, I didn't bang on about Logo, because you get sick of me talking about my cases and so do I. Not hearing about yours, talking about mine,' she added. ‘I want to hear about yours much more than I want to talk about mine; what I can't stand is you thinking all the time that you're boring me. You leave out all the best bits, as if I was a real lawyer who only wanted to hear what you should have noticed instead of what you did. And anyway, I don't own you. You've made that patently clear. One weekend's whole-hearted devotion is supposed to go a long way with you—'

‘You're sidetracking, Helen.'

He had got the cork out of the bottle, setting about it like an amateur, she noticed, crashing the bottle on the table. Good red wine, she also noticed. Good job she didn't much mind about the polished surface, easy come, easy go: things were meant to be used and surfaces scarred but it was a shame to waste the stuff by spilling it, even if there was plenty more. He'd arrived at the flat, at the end of his course, with a load of supermarket bags, most of them clanking with bottles, possibly the remnants of their end-of-term midnight feast, she thought maliciously. Not enough to allay her fears, but then all the crises of the last two weeks seemed to iron one another out, leaving her lightheaded.

‘What did I do wrong?' Bailey shouted. ‘Tell me what I did wrong!'

‘Typical male, tums everything into a personal accusation. You didn't do anything wrong.'

‘Well why were you so brisk with me when I phoned last Friday, before all this happened? Why not ask me to come home and help you with Rose Darvey et al, instead of just telling me afterwards about being hurt and then saying airily, “Doesn't matter, I'm managing fine …” How do you think that makes me feel?'

‘I didn't ask you to come back because it was perfectly obvious you'd rather not. I wanted a volunteer or nothing, but you were all hooked up with your course and whatever you and Ryan were up to – don't tell me, I don't want to know. After the weekend before, when you got here half drunk, not exactly eager—'

‘When you had us spending half Sunday in your office!'

‘What's that got to do with it? After a week, I wanted you to be all over me, dying to see me and you weren't, that's all.'

He didn't venture to say he might have wanted the same, was silent, poured some wine with an unsteady hand. Helen had all the answers and his conscience was – how could he put it? – cloudy, like this wine.

‘Anyway,' he said without a trace of bitterness, ‘you seem to have recovered from everything very well.' Oh no, don't do that, she thought. Don't go back into your professional detachment. I know I haven't been fair, I'd want to shoot you if you did to me what I've done to you this last fortnight, but I had to see if I could cope alone, or I never shall, and please don't retreat like that, I want you to come out and fight.

‘You know the worst thing that has happened to me since you went away?' she asked. ‘The very worst thing? It's the reason why I'm so calm about everything else.'

‘What?'

‘Not being pregnant when I thought I was. Even though it scared the hell out of me, that was the worst. Puts all the rest of it in the shade. Even all the cowardice, the running scared round the office, the being absolutely useless, as well as blind, everything. I didn't care too much if I survived anyway. I thought it was far better if Rose did, because she can have lots of babies. And you didn't seem to see how much it mattered.'

He put down his glass.

‘I know it mattered. But you never wanted a baby anyway. What about you comforting me for what might have been and wasn't? It didn't cross your mind. The more I sympathised, the more you'd think I was putting on pressure … Oh, what's the point?'

‘Whatever it is, that isn't it.'

He was silent again, drinking rather quickly, a bit defensive, quiet, even by his own standards. He looked at his watch, needn't have bothered since he always seemed to know almost exactly what time it was. He was just filling the silence with a gesture. Typical male, she thought again, if they ever had any idea how closely they are observed, they'd resort to permanent blindfolds.

‘You wanted me to remind you to phone someone before eight,' he said. ‘In case you forgot, it's now seven forty-five. By the time you've done that, I might be halfway through some cooking.'

‘We could go out, spare you the trouble.'

‘No.'

 

‘W
hy didn't you tell me?' Michael asked Rose. ‘Why couldn't you tell me, when we first met, even after a week, what you told my mother and she told me?'

Rose and Michael's mother had been a case of love at first sight. Rose had been unnaturally calm like some creature caught in the headlights before death, poor little bird, you could feel her heart beating and her bones about to break when she was thrust into the bosom of the Michael family in the early hours of a Sunday morning with only enough warning to call a doctor and make a bed. Days of grieving and talking, poultices placed on wounds, ripped off again, replaced, an intermittent healing. Making statements from the living room to endless supplies of tea, with Michael holding her hand until by fits and starts the whole thing emerged with the ease of a Caesarean birth. Now they were in his flat. He wondered if it was too soon, he wondered what he'd got, but it was better, just by themselves. Like children playing house, she seemed to enjoy that. And she couldn't get over the fact that he was still there, not bossing her around or anything, but still there, knowing exactly when to shoo the people away and when to let them in, even his mother.

They were lying with their backs to his sofa. There was a fair bit of dust around, but he kept everything presentable. Helen West had sent over her two teddy bears, which was a nice thought, but she didn't want to think of Helen West. Chinese takeaway was a relief after relentless home cooking, but Mrs Michael wanted them back for Sunday lunch. Rose thought she could get used to it. She twisted her plait. Time to cut it off, it was beginning to annoy her.

‘I couldn't tell you. You wouldn't have wanted to know. I didn't want to know either.'

‘Look,' he said, ‘I didn't think you were a virgin, did I? I couldn't have thought that. But I always knew you were still a kid at heart, innocent. Didn't make any odds, either way.'

She considered it, nodding. ‘Nope. But it makes a difference, doesn't it? Going with blokes because you're frightened of the dark, and going with your dad—'

‘Stop that,' he said, suddenly authoritative. ‘Just stop that. You didn't go with your dad. Your dad got his dick out and hit you with it, that's what. And nobody is ever going to do that to you again.'

She was silent again.

‘I think Dinsdale's all right,' she said suddenly. ‘I hope they don't fix him.'

‘Why “all right”?'

‘He wouldn't let me look out of the window.'

Yes, that did make him all right, whatever else he'd done. Michael shuddered. Rose began to cry. ‘Shh,' he said. ‘Shh. It'll get better. I promise it'll get better.'

‘I wish he wasn't dead. Not like that, not like that. I wish they weren't going to find Gran in that graveyard … I wish …'

‘It's getting cold,' he said. ‘Here, cuddle up.'

He moved closer, nuzzling her bird bones into the warmth of his chest, the clean smell of him, the comfort of beginning to believe him and oh, this terrible wanting which should not have been the birthchild of grief for Gran and Mum and everyone else, but was.

‘You won't leave me, will you, Mikey?' she mumbled finally, her voice low and childish.

‘No. Not until you're fed up with me, don't want me there.' He wondered how long, pulled her closer.

She extended her hand over the lamp next to them on the floor, let a huge shadow fall across the wall. Then snuggled back against him.

 

S
teak, salad, ridiculously expensive new potatoes at the wrong time of year, followed by cheese. She could cope with this. Second bottle, nearly gone. Any invitations cancelled. Helen knew that what she had to say might have to bear the brunt of several repetitions. Bailey put down his knife suddenly, smiled at her, on the brink of laughter.

‘You look as if you've just been exhumed,' he said with grim relish. ‘Steristrips in your head, eight stitches in your arm and skin the colour of a lemon. You're an awkward, unreasonable woman and I still fancy you rotten. You're a walking nightmare, for me, do you know that? What am I going to do with you?'

She wondered. Had been wondering for a long time, but never as much as when she was helped out of the office into an ambulance last week, insisting she could walk and knowing she was going to have to fight for ever to quell her fear of the dark. Dinsdale being kind, but still a thief, Rose with her champion, everyone with someone, and she as she always was, alone, slugging it out with the whole universe.

‘I thought we might get married,' she said. His knife clattered to the floor.

‘I'm a pain in the neck, I know I am. It just struck me that the way to cure going backwards was to take a leap forwards.'

‘Quite a leap.'

‘You always said you would.'

He took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps I meant at any time when you weren't speaking out of fear and a reaction to being attacked.'

She did not know whether to be disappointed, angry, humiliated or relieved. Dear Bailey had had his taste of freedom. Better to make light of it. She got up to clear the table, make the thick black coffee which he liked and which never kept either of them awake. It was nice to know a man's habits, even if they did irritate.

‘I suppose that means you've gone off the whole idea? Marriage I mean.'

‘Yes, for the time being. Doesn't mean I don't love you. Means it's my turn to be ambivalent.'

‘That's all right then.'

 

S
he stood by the kitchen window with a tray full of dishes which would wait, looking into the dark winter garden, aching. There was a line from a hymn running through her head … Oh thou who changest not, abide with me.

Dear God, if you exist, don't let me be afraid of the dark.

FRANCES FYFIELD
has spent much of her professional life practicing as a criminal lawyer, work which has informed her highly acclaimed novels. She has been the recipient of both the Gold and Silver Crime Writers' Association Daggers. She is also a regular broadcaster on Radio 4, most recently as the presenter of the series ‘Tales from the Stave.' She lives in London and in Deal, overlooking the sea, which is her passion.

francesfyfield.co.uk

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book was previously published in the UK in 2012 by Little, Brown Book Group.

S
HADOW PLAY
. Copyright © 1993 by Frances Fyfield. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition MARCH 2014 ISBN: 9780062301437

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