Kingdom of Shadows (46 page)

‘Yes.’

‘And do you think it’s true?’

James shrugged. ‘Probably.’

‘You don’t think it could hurt her in any way, do you? One hears such frightening stories about people being possessed by evil spirits.’

‘I don’t think Isobel was evil.’ James sat down thoughtfully. ‘She was just a very unhappy woman, that’s all. Clare’s been obsessed by her for years.’

‘Obsession is a psychological condition, James –’

‘Clare is not mad, Emma.’ James spoke unusually forcefully. ‘And if Paul is telling people she is, he’s a liar!’

16

The security men at BCWP were expecting them. As the taxi drew up outside the building they unlocked the doors and let them in.

‘Mr Royland is in his room, Mr Firbank.’

‘Come on.’ Henry took Clare’s hand.

Together they walked up the broad flight of stairs which led from the huge hall, lit now not by the vast chandelier, but only the low-watt courtesy light on the reception desk. The landing was in darkness.

Outside Paul’s door, Henry paused. ‘OK?’ he whispered.

Clare nodded. It was idiotic to feel nervous.

Henry didn’t knock. Throwing open the door he ushered Clare in. ‘Here we are, right on time!’

Paul was sitting in one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace. Beside him on a low table stood an ice bucket with a bottle of Bollinger and three glasses. On the desk by the window lay a sheaf of red roses.

He rose slowly. ‘Clare, darling.’ He kissed her gently on the mouth. It was a slow lingering kiss and Clare felt a strange clutch of excitement in her stomach. ‘Come on, Henry. Do the honours.’ He waved at the champagne.

He helped her off with her coat, the luxurious wild mink he had given her for her twenty-eighth birthday, and threw it on a chair. Then he turned to the desk. ‘These are for you, my darling. To make up.’ He picked up the flowers and thrust them into Clare’s arms.

She stared at them. ‘Paul, they’re lovely –’

‘I’ve been a bastard these last few weeks, I know.’ Paul put his arm around her. ‘Say you forgive me?’

‘Of course I forgive you.’ She stared up at him. Relief was making her feel weak at the knees.

‘Here you are.’ Henry had poured the champagne. He glanced at Clare, trying to keep his face cheerful. ‘I’m beginning to feel that I’m the proverbial gooseberry here. I’ll drink your health quickly then I think I’ll leave. You don’t mind?’

Clare looked up at Paul’s face. He was smiling, but there was a slight sheen of perspiration on his forehead. For a second she hesitated, then she shook her head. ‘Of course I don’t mind. Thank you, Henry, for a lovely evening.’

‘My pleasure.’ Henry drank his half glass of champagne rather too quickly, then he put the glass down and turned to the door. ‘Be good! Remember the security boys! I’ll see you in the morning, Paul.’

As the door closed behind him Paul picked the bottle out of the ice and refilled Clare’s glass. ‘Nice chap, Henry. Useful sort of man to have around. He’s in love with you, you know.’ He sounded amused.

Clare swallowed. ‘I don’t think so. Not really. He’s very fond of Diane.’

‘Diane?’ Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Then he’s a fool. The woman is a whore.’ He thrust the bottle back into the bucket with a noise like splintering glass. ‘Anyway, she’s his problem, not ours.’ He smiled. ‘Drink up, then we’ll go home. We don’t want to shock those guards, do we!’ He ran his finger slowly up her arm.

Clare sipped her champagne. She was feeling slightly light-headed. The office was full of the scent of roses.

Slowly Paul walked round the room, turning off the lights one by one, until only the table lamp by the chair was left on. The room was very silent. ‘I told the guards it was our anniversary,’ he murmured. ‘You’d forgotten, hadn’t you? We met on the fourth of November.’

Clare put down her glass carefully. ‘So we did. I was sixteen. You’d come to school to see Emma and you agreed to stay for the firework party.’

‘Remember, remember the fifth of November,’ he said slowly. ‘The day I fell in love.’ He put his arms around her and kissed her again. His mouth tasted antiseptic, as if he had just gargled. ‘Before we go I want to show you something.’

Clare smiled uneasily. ‘Paul darling, let’s just go home –’

‘It won’t take long. Come on. Bring the flowers.’ He reached on to his desk and picked up an envelope, tucking it into his inside pocket then gathering her coat over his arm, he turned off the light. In the sudden darkness a dim shadowy twilight from the street lamps outside lit the room, filtering around the edges of the heavy blinds. By its light he guided her to a door on the far side of the room and opened it. The corridor outside led through into the new offices. Off it led a passage which took them to a private lift. Paul pressed the button on the wall. ‘I want you to come up and see the view. It’s a beautiful night now. The rain has gone and the whole city is glowing in the starlight.’

‘No, Paul, please. Let’s go home.’ Clare hung back, every sense warning her to run.

The lift doors slid back without a sound and stayed open as Paul stood, his finger on the button.

‘You’re not afraid. Not with me here?’ He ran his fingers over her shoulders. ‘There’s more champagne upstairs, Clare, and candlelight. We can make love on the roof of the world. Come.’ Taking her hand gently he stepped into the lift and she had no alternative but reluctantly to follow him. As they both turned to face the door he fitted a security card into a slot and pressed the top button.

Clutching the roses she buried her face in the blooms as the steel doors slid shut and she held her breath as with a slight bump the lift began its upward journey.

Paul stopped it between the twelfth and thirteenth floors and removed the card. Slipping it into his breast pocket he leaned against the wall, folding his arms over her mink. He was smiling.

‘This, I think, is as good a place as any to have our little conversation, don’t you?’ he said.

Clare stared at him in disbelief, clutching convulsively at the roses.

‘All I want, my darling, is your signature on this document.’ He reached into his pocket for the envelope. ‘Oh yes, I kept a copy. Henry and Sarah can “witness” it tomorrow. The important thing is for you to sign it. Now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost exactly midnight. The witching hour. And on the thirteenth floor. Most appropriate, don’t you think? We have the rest of the night, if necessary. I told the security men we didn’t want to be disturbed, and they won’t check this lift.’

Clare closed her eyes, trying desperately to fight back the rising waves of panic. ‘Paul, please –’

He was taking a gold-plated ballpoint pen out of his pocket. Dropping her coat on the thickly carpeted lift floor he slowly extricated the papers from the envelope.

It was growing hot and Clare’s arms tightened convulsively on the roses. She could feel the thorns tearing her skin through the cellophane. ‘I won’t sign!’ Defiantly she backed into the corner, feeling the walls of the lift cold through the thin silk of her dress. ‘Please, Paul, this is ridiculous!’ She had begun to tremble. Her mouth had gone dry and her breathing was coming in short, shallow gasps. Desperately she tried to remember the techniques Zak had taught her.

Breathe slowly. Count. Think of the ashram. Think of Duncairn
in the sun. Think of the sea whispering gently at the foot of the cliffs
.
Think of the wind whispering in the spicy, fragrant branches of the
old pines. Count. Count slowly. You have nothing to fear, but fear
itself. Paul can’t keep you here forever. He is a big man. He will
need oxygen before you do. He doesn’t want to die. Soon he will
begin to gasp and feel the need for oxygen … Soon he will want
to open the doors
…

She raised her eyes desperately to his. He was smiling. Beads of perspiration stood out on his brow and his face was slightly flushed, but otherwise he was calm. Slowly he held out the paper and pen to her.

‘Sign, Clare.’

‘No.’ Blood was running down her wrist from the rose thorns, but she didn’t notice. ‘I’m not going to sign it.’ She clenched her teeth. ‘You will run out of air long before I do, Paul.’

The walls were beginning to spin.

‘I don’t think so.’ He smiled. ‘After all, I’m not panicking, am I? Sign, Clare. Then it will all be over. Here –’ He tore the roses out of her arms and threw them to the floor with the coat, staring in distaste at the bloody scratches on her arms. Seizing her hand he folded her fingers around his pen. ‘Sign, you stupid bitch!’ His voice was thick. ‘Sign!’ Suddenly he was beside himself with anger and fear.

‘No.’ He barely heard her whisper.

‘Sign!’ He laughed desperately. ‘Look at you. Terrified of shadows; a mad woman, living in the past! What kind of wife do you think you are, Clare? Useless! Certifiable! And, by God, I’ll have you certified! There won’t be a doctor in the country who would let you walk free after what I tell them about you, not with Geoffrey as my witness. You thought it a joke, did you, telling Geoffrey all about your little games? Raising the devil! Summoning the spirits! Black masses on the lawn! No joke, Clare. No joke at all. Not when the evidence is corroborated by Sir David Royland, MP.’

She barely heard him. She could see the eyes, the bars; the lift walls came and went; voices echoed in her head; jeers. She could feel the wings flapping desperately around her head, and she didn’t even know if they were her own … Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The light in the lift grew dim; there was a roaring, rushing sound in her ears then all went black. With a strangled cry she crumpled at Paul’s feet.

He stood looking down at her dispassionately. ‘Stupid, stupid woman! I tried to help you!’ He hardly knew what he was saying. ‘If you’d signed it would have been all right. Now I’ve got to hand you over to them. I won’t be able to save you.’ He felt in his pocket for the security card and slowly slotting it into place, pressed the button for the ground floor. It was stiflingly hot in the lift. As it began to move he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

Clare opened her eyes slowly. She was lying sprawled in a chair in Paul’s office. In the dim light of the desk lamp she could see him standing by the window. He had raised the blind and was staring out into the street. There was a glass in his hand.

She must have made some movement, for he turned. ‘When you feel well enough we’ll get a taxi home,’ he said quietly. His voice was quite normal again.

‘I’m well enough now.’ With an effort she pulled herself upright in the chair.

‘Then I’ll tell one of the men at the desk to phone for one.’ He put down his glass. For a moment he stood looking down at her, then he turned and walked out of the room.

Clare closed her eyes. Her head was splitting. She couldn’t think. She didn’t want to think. She couldn’t face the implications of what had happened and she felt sick and very afraid.

When Paul returned she rose shakily to her feet and began to walk towards the door. Her face was white as a sheet as he picked up her coat and put it over her shoulders, then he handed her the roses. ‘I’ll not give the cleaners the pleasure of seeing them in the bin,’ he said curtly. ‘Take them.’

The drawing-room light was on when they got home. There was a note on the table.

Sorry to have missed you. Will ring tomorrow. Hope you had a nice evening. Sorry about the whisky but Em was here as well. James

Paul threw down the note and picked up his decanter. It was empty.

Behind him Clare walked slowly up the stairs. Automaton-like she took off her coat and hung it in the cupboard. She dropped the roses on the dressing table and going into the bathroom began to run a bath. They had not exchanged one single word in the taxi.

She was already in bed, pretending to be asleep, when Paul came upstairs. Only when she felt his weight on the edge of the bed did her eyes fly open. He pulled back the duvet and climbed in beside her. ‘We don’t want you having nightmares alone, do we?’ he said grimly.

Clare shrank away from him. ‘I’m tired, Paul,’ she said sharply.

He smiled. ‘Afraid I’m going to jump on you? You think stubborn stupidity and hysteria turn me on?’ Leaning towards her he hooked his finger around the thin strap of her nightdress and flicked it contemptuously off her shoulder. ‘Perhaps they do. Making love to an insane woman might just be exciting, but then again, perhaps not.’ He lay back on the pillows.

Clare turned her back on him. She could feel a slow anger burning through her fear, but her terror of the man next to her was stronger. She was afraid to move, afraid to get out of bed in case it angered him again. Tensely she lay beside him, listening to him breathing evenly beside her. It was a long time before she realised he was asleep.

She closed her eyes, feeling tears of anger and frustration and exhaustion running down her face and into the pillow, listening as a car drove noisily down the silent street outside. The curtains weren’t properly closed and she could see a street light, blurred behind the rain-streaked glass. She fixed her eyes on it miserably, wishing it were morning. Even Paul’s claim that the evening had cleared and that there were stars had been a lie.

Dream, child. Don’t you trust yourself to dream?

Aunt Margaret’s voice was loud in the room.
Command the dream and the nightmare will be finished
.
Follow Isobel. Clare. Follow her, Fight
…

Restlessly Clare stirred on the bed.

‘I have a message from the Earl of Carrick.’ The small, wizened man bent close to her. His wrinkled, nut-brown face was alight with humour. ‘Does the Lady Buchan want it?’

Isobel glanced over her shoulder. The rabbit warren of buildings which clustered round the Palais de la Cité was always crowded, always bustling, always noisy. She beckoned him into a corner out of earshot of her two attendants who were watching the antics of a street musician with his dancing bear. ‘Of course I want it!’