Walking in Darkness (26 page)

Sophie listened intently, hungry to know more about her sister.

‘Do you know her?’

‘Well, not to say
know
, we’re not friends, so to speak, but she often comes in here with a party of her visitors, for a drink, or some sandwiches. They like to visit a real old English pub, especially the American ones. She’s American, you know, not English. She does a lot of good locally. She’s always ready to help the local women’s groups, she opens flower shows, and lets the pony club hold their gymkhana in Arbory grounds, and lets the vicar use the grounds, too, for the annual village fair in June. She gets us VIPs from London to open it, too. That brings the people in and raises money for the church roof fund. She’s always friendly to everyone and has a smile for us if we see her. Oh, she’s well liked.’

Sophie was fascinated by all this and could have listened all night, but the landlady paused, grimacing. ‘Sorry, here I am chatting away, and I have a lot to do downstairs before we open. So do you want to eat here tonight?’

‘Well, I’m not sure what time I’ll be back after visiting Arbory House.’

‘Well, you can have a bar snack if you’re late – or I can give you dinner in my private dining-room, but only until nine o’clock, after that dinner is off. The main dish tonight is roast lamb, and it’s good, believe me. Followed by apple and prune crumble – you’ll love it.’

‘It sounds delicious.’

‘I’m afraid I have to ask for cash in advance, at such short notice, though. It’s thirty pounds a night and a pound for the toothbrush. Did you want to borrow a nightie?’

‘No, thank you, I’ll manage.’ Sophie got out her wallet and paid her, glad that she had been to a bank that morning and got some English money. She was not going to spend any of the money Steve had given her; she would feel guilty, taking his firm’s money and using it for her own private reasons.

Was Steve being so generous because he secretly hoped to get a story out of her eventually? A shiver ran down her spine. She didn’t want to believe that. He was so cynical, though. Would he do anything to get a good story?

The landlady’s smile warmed up as she pocketed the cash. ‘Thanks. Here’s your key. I’ll leave the toothbrush and paste in the bathroom later. Let me know if you need anything else.’

Sophie moved to the window to stare out across the village green to the tall iron gates with their gilded coats of arms. ‘That’s Arbory House opposite, isn’t it? Is it far from the gates to the house?’

‘A good half-mile. Are you expected? Because the gates are always locked. You talk through some electronic contraption on the wall, give your name to the gate-keeper and he contacts the house to check they want to see you.’

Sophie hadn’t expected that; had never realized how difficult it would be to get in to see Anya. It didn’t put her off trying, however. She was determined to get in somehow; nothing was going to stop her seeing Anya.

The landlady left her and Sophie went into the bathroom and used the lavatory, then washed her hands and face, renewed her make-up, brushed her hair. The mirror showed her a pale, fine-drawn face with a faintly tremulous mouth, but beneath that a stubborn, determined chin, which matched eyes that were shadowed with obsession.

Ever since her mother told her that Anya was alive she had been possessed with the need to see her. She had been walking in darkness ever since, her mind troubled, aware of hostility and pursuit, knowing she was in danger, possibly risking her life. But she didn’t care about any of that. The obsession which had her in its grip meant that now all she cared about was seeing her sister at last, and telling her their mother was dying and needed to see Anya at least one time before she died.

She frowned – should she ring her mother now, find out how she was today? She had spoken to her two days ago, from New York, and Mamma had sounded quite well. Maybe she should wait until she had seen Anya, and could tell her mother if Anya would come to see her.

Yes, that would be best. She had to hurry, before the sun set. She had forgotten how early the sun sank towards the horizon in England in winter. Already the sky was turning pink in the west, flame-coloured streaks running behind Arbory Woods. Soon the light would fade from the sky and it would be dark.

But first she must ring Steve at the hotel and let him know where she was before he started looking for her. He was going to be angry with her for disobeying him.

She was relieved when there was no reply from his room. She left a message with the hotel operator.

As she began to walk across the village green to the gates of Arbory House, the sun sank behind the trees of the park she could glimpse through the gates. Shadows lay in great pools under the trees on the green; there was the chill of winter in the air. She shivered as she passed the pond, whose surface rippled as the night wind blew over it, sending the mallards quacking into the cover of the bullrushes ringing the water.

Reaching the edge of the village green, she began to cross the road on the other side, and was almost at the gates when she heard a car accelerating.

Startled by how close the sound was, Sophie looked round and saw a black shape very close to her, coming at a speed that made her nerves jump. She began to run, but not fast enough; the wing of the car hit her a glancing blow and sent her flying through the air like a rag doll. She landed heavily on one side and lay, half-conscious, where she had fallen, just in front of the iron gates.

She didn’t hear the car brakes scream as the driver hit them. The car zigzagged all over the tarmac, tyres spinning noisily, turned in a wide circle and slowed while the driver stared as Sophie stirred and started to struggle to her knees. Then the car engine revved, the car shot forward, driving very fast towards her. Sophie lifted her head to stare at it, her heart thudding in panic. All she could see was the black glass of the windscreen and a shape behind it in the driving seat, but she could not see a face and that scared her more than anything else.

A second later a beam of yellow headlights lit her crouching figure and she instinctively looked round towards the iron gates as they began to open electronically with a smooth humming sound for a long silvery sports car which was coming fast from the house.

It dawned on Sophie abruptly that it was coming straight for her too; that if the black car didn’t hit her, the sports car would. She staggered to her feet, looking desperately around. Could she make it to the village green before either of them reached her?

As she turned to run she heard the silver car brake sharply, as if the driver had suddenly caught sight of her.

At that instant the driver of the black car must have seen the other vehicle too. Swerving out of its path towards her, the black car flashed on past, and, as it changed trajectory, went out of control. Tyres screaming, it spun across the road, hit the slight rise at the edge of the village green, turned turtle and was carried on, upside-down, at a tremendous speed over the grass.

Stunned, Sophie stood and watched, scarcely aware of breathing, as the car hit a huge oak tree near the pond. The noise was indescribable; a nightmare sound of splintering glass, imploding metal, crashing branches from the tree, ending in an explosion that deafened her, before a great wall of fire went up and engulfed the oak tree, the car and the human being that had been driving it.

Sophie had not even noticed the other car pulling up a few feet away, or realized that the other driver had got out and stood there watching, too, as appalled as herself.

Shaking and crying, Sophie began to run towards the burning car, not knowing what she was doing, not thinking, only feeling that somebody ought to do something.

‘No! You can’t do anything for them now!’ The voice beside her made her start violently and look round, eyes dilated and full of the horror of what she had just watched.

By the orange blaze of the fire Sophie saw her, a dark-haired woman a little older than herself, in ash-grey trousers, a sweater in a paler shade of grey and a short jersey wool jacket in a warm russet shade.

When Sophie just stared, she went on, ‘Are you OK? What on earth was going on? It looked to me as if that car was driving straight at you.’

Sophie’s heart was beating so hard she felt sick. Even in that awful light she knew that face, those eyes. She had brought with her all the enlarged photos Steve had had made of the photocopied portraits of her family, to show her sister, but she did not need to consult them to recognize the likeness. She was looking at a younger version of her mother.

‘Anya,’ she said, smiling shakily, tears rising to her eyes.

Cathy Brougham let go of her and stepped back, startled, face pale. ‘You? It was you who rang me this morning, wasn’t it? Who are you? And who on earth is Anya?’

Sophie only heard the first few words. Shock and weariness finally engulfed her. She slumped forward in a dead faint, and Cathy caught her in her arms.

People came running from across the green, from up and down the village high street, shouting, their voices carrying over the roar of the burning car. Some of them tried to get closer, one man dodged in to see if whoever was inside the car could be helped, but the searing heat drove them all back.

‘I rang the police and fire brigade.’ The landlady of the Green Man was out of breath, her chest heaving after running across the village green. ‘They should be here soon.’

‘Can you help me? I’m going to put her in my car. She can’t just lie here in the road.’ Cathy Brougham was holding Sophie’s dead weight under the arms, supporting her with her own body.

‘Sure. I’ll take her feet. Here we go.’

‘Is she OK? That car didn’t knock her down, did it?’

‘I don’t know what happened. She doesn’t seem to be injured.’

‘There’s blood on her face,’ said the landlady, peering closer, then she turned and stared at the burning car. ‘I heard the crash – thought it was the end of the world. Terrible noise, wasn’t it? I dropped the pint of beer I was pulling, all over the counter it went, glass and beer everywhere. I didn’t have to go to the window to see what had happened; it lit up the windows. Lit up the sky, too, I dare say, for miles.’

‘Like the Blitz,’ an old man said, standing beside them, staring at the blaze like a little boy on Bonfire Night, his rheumy eyes glistening in the light. ‘Reminds me of fire-watching. Terrible heat, fire has. Look at the glass melting. Won’t be much left of them inside.’

‘That’s enough, Albert! You’ll make us all ill.’ The landlady slid a look at Cathy Brougham’s appalled expression.

Sophie lay with firelight shining on her lids and didn’t dare to open her eyes. Her teeth were chattering, she was trembling violently and was icy cold. Why was she so cold? Where was she? What had happened? She heard the voices as if from far away, foreign, bewildering. What were they talking about?

Across the green she heard the rush and roar of the flames, branches crashing from the tree which was now on fire, too, and her memory came back. The black car driving straight at her . . . the crash . . . the explosion. Oh, God, that noise!

‘Your friend’s shaking like a leaf. She’s staying in my front bedroom, by the way,’ the landlady told Cathy. ‘She didn’t cause the accident, did she? She just walked out of the pub a few minutes ago, coming over here to see you, she said.’

‘I think the car must have hit her, but she got up. She didn’t seem seriously injured.’ Cathy bent to look at Sophie. ‘You’re right, she’s shaking badly, she must be in shock. Did you ring the doctor?’

‘The police said they would be sending an ambulance.’ The landlady turned to stare as a small police car drove up with siren wailing. ‘What’s he making that racket for? Give a man a horn and he’ll blow it.’

Without answering, Cathy moved to meet the policeman. Sophie heard her voice talking quietly, heard a man’s voice asking questions, then Cathy came back. ‘He says it’s OK for me to go back to my house and take this lady with me. There’s an ambulance on the way, and he rang Dr Waring, but the doctor was out on a call. He’ll be along later and can look at her then. She’ll be better off lying down somewhere warm.’

Sophie could feel tears trickling down her face. She was dizzy and disorientated. Her mind kept drifting off into confused visions: cars screamed towards her, headlights blinding, tyres spun on the road, the car slewed round and rushed towards the oak tree, she heard the crash again, endlessly echoing, the explosion with which the petrol tanks blew, saw the fireball go up into the bare black branches of the oak, orange flames climbing into the night sky.

Cathy Brougham got behind the wheel and closed her door, starting the engine. The silver car moved off through the open iron gates, drove back along the drive, over gravel, under trees which sent a strange flickering over Sophie’s face, the shadows of the leaves reflected in the headlights. Her eyes opened and stared up, hypnotized.

They approached a house; she saw the black bulk of it, a front door opened and sent yellow light towards them, the car stopped outside and there were raised, startled voices.

Somebody opened the door of the car beside her and she was helped out, supported by two people, one on each side, while she staggered towards the square of light which was a door.

‘In here . . .’

The light dazzled her. She swayed, and was held, was half-carried into a room and laid down on a couch. She stayed still, her eyes shut again, heard footsteps clicking on wood floors, a door somewhere near by open and close quietly.

‘How do you feel?’

The voice came from right beside her and she started, opening her eyes to find herself lying flat, with a warm woollen tartan rug over her. Above her a face glowed in the firelight, soft-skinned, with wide eyes and curling dark hair.

Mamma! she wanted to say. The name came instantly to her lips but was not spoken because even as she thought it she knew that this was not her mother, this was Anya, and she remembered everything. It all came back with a rush and made her dizzy again. She couldn’t believe that at last she was seeing her sister, that it was all true, Anya was alive and so strikingly like their mother that Sophie couldn’t stop staring at her. If she had had any doubts at all about their mother’s story, they had all dissolved. There was no shred of doubt anywhere. This was her sister, this was Anya, and she was no longer an outsider in her mother’s new family, she was no longer alone, she had Anya now, even if Anya did not yet know it.