Walking in Darkness (27 page)

Anya might reject her. She could see that Anya was disturbed by her, thought her crazy, perhaps? And rationally, Sophie couldn’t blame her.

‘I’d offer you some brandy, but I’m not sure if I should give you alcohol, there’s some water here, if you want it. That can’t hurt you,’ said the strangely American voice which should have been like her own, or like their mother’s.

‘Please,’ she whispered, and watched her sister pick up a glass of water which looked so clear and cool her mouth thirsted for it as if she had been lost in a desert and had not drunk for days.

Cathy slid a hand under her neck and lifted her head, held the glass to her mouth; Sophie swallowed and the water flowed down her throat. Cathy lowered her again and sat down on the carpet beside the couch, her knees, in their sleek grey jersey wool trousers, bent up and her arms curled around them, hands clasped, her chin on top of them, staring at Sophie.

‘When you fainted I wasn’t sure what to do, so I brought you here, to my home. You didn’t seem to have any serious injuries, and the nearest hospital is a very long drive away. I’ve sent for our doctor. He’ll be able to tell us if you need hospital treatment.’

‘I don’t think I’m badly hurt,’ Sophie said, sitting up warily to test that.

Cathy at once said sharply, ‘Be careful! You ought to lie down until the doctor has seen you.’

‘I’m not in any pain.’ Sophie felt her arms and legs gingerly. ‘No, no bones broken. A few bruises where the car hit me, or where I fell, but I expect I’m more shocked than hurt.’

‘All the same you shouldn’t move. Shock can be pretty devastating.’

‘Yes.’ Sophie lay down again and looked around the room, curious about her sister’s home. Large, furnished with what she recognized as antiques, yet comfortable, a family room with a very lived-in sense. The couch was arranged in front of a huge stone fireplace which was big enough for several people to stand inside. There was a black iron basket in the centre of it, holding the great log fire which gave the room so much heat and light, scenting the air with pine, crackling as resin ran from the wood and exploded in the heat with sparks flying up the great, blackened chimney.

Sophie shivered suddenly, staring into the heart of the fire and remembering.

‘Don’t think about it!’ Cathy Brougham said sharply, tuning into her thoughts. ‘Try not to think at all.’

Sophie laughed shakily. Above it a gold clock in a glass case chimed the hour; Sophie counted the chimes and couldn’t believe that it was already five o’clock. It had been morning when she left the hotel; the journey here had taken longer than she had ever guessed it might. She hoped Steve had got her message or he would be worried, finding her missing. Would the hotel remember to give it to him?

‘Would you like some coffee or tea?’ suggested Cathy.

‘Coffee would be good,’ Sophie whispered.

Cathy went to a table to pick up a telephone, pressed a button. ‘Could we have a pot of coffee and some biscuits?’ she asked whoever answered. ‘Thank you. No, nothing else.’

A wood-block floor gleamed in the firelight, reflecting the silver photograph frames displayed on tables, the faces in them all unknown to her except those which showed Anya, reflecting two glass vases of winter flowers, white and gold chrysanthemums, a row of dark family portraits hung on the panelled walls. Were those the ancestors of Anya’s husband, Paul Brougham? Here and there the floor was laid with rugs, dark red and black, their patterns ritualized, the wavy lines representing water, the triangles trees; that much she knew from once attending a sale of rugs in London a year or so ago.

Sitting on the floor, Cathy Brougham watched Sophie, wondering what she was thinking. Who on earth was she? She was beautiful, her blonde hair silky, her skin smooth, even if it had a worrying pallor. Had the car crash put that haunted, almost hunted look in her blue eyes? Had the black car been trying to hit her? What was she doing here? Why had she rung up earlier, and asked if she was Anya – why did she keep calling
her
Anya? Who was Anya?

Cathy remembered the crash again, the explosion, the flames. Her heart raced with shock and disbelief.

‘That car tried to run you down, didn’t it?’ she broke out and Sophie started, and looked at her, unable to hide the fear she felt.

‘You saw?’

‘I saw the car driving straight at you. In my headlights. I saw clearly what was happening. Before the car went into a spin and crashed.’

‘Did you see who was driving?’

‘There wasn’t time and it was too dark, anyway. But there was just one person in the car, and I had a feeling it was a woman.’

Sophie’s chest squeezed agonizingly. ‘Yes, I thought it was too.’ Her voice sounded like dead leaves blowing down a gutter, whispering, faint.

Cathy stared fixedly at her. ‘You know why she was trying to kill you, don’t you? Why? Who was she? Come to that, who are you? What’s this all about? And who is Anya?’

Sophie looked around wildly. ‘My bag. Where’s my bag? I had it with me when that car hit me, I know I did . . .’

Her voice soothing, Cathy quickly said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s here, I saw it on the road and picked it up.’ Getting to her feet she went to a table nearby and picked up the large black shoulder bag which she had found on the road beside her car. ‘Here it is, you see?’

‘Oh, thank you.’ In her relief Sophie almost sobbed as she took it. Her hands shook as she unzipped it and pulled out the little sheaf of photographs she had brought with her to show her sister. Hunting through them, she found the photo of their mother in her wedding-dress and held it out. ‘Do you recognize this?’

Frowning, startled, Cathy Brougham took it. ‘What a strange picture! It looks like a photo of a ghost.’ She shivered as if a ghost had in fact walked over her grave.

‘It’s a photocopy of a photograph; the photo was blown up to make it clearer.’

It was far from clear, thought Cathy. ‘But what is it?’ She found the strange black and white composition disturbing; she couldn’t stop staring, though, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Slowly she turned her head and stared into a gilt-framed Venetian eighteenth-century mirror hanging on the wall across the room. She walked over there to look closer, held the photograph up beside her own reflection, and couldn’t breathe properly. It could have been a picture of her, now; yet it was clearly an old photograph, more a negative in ghostly black and white, the clothes old-fashioned, a peasant look to them that made them foreign, and yet that face was so familiar, she had seen it in her mirror a million times.

‘What is this?’ she whispered. ‘Who is it?’

Sophie was breathless with excitement and relief because she could see that her sister had seen the resemblance, was shaken by it. ‘You do recognize it, don’t you?’

Cathy swallowed. ‘No!’ she lied. It was some trick, it had to be. Had someone taken a picture of her and stuck it on the body of someone else? Angrily she broke out, ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Sophie, Sophie Narodni.’

‘Narodni?’ The way she repeated it told Sophie that the name meant nothing to her. ‘That’s East European, isn’t it? – where do you come from?’

‘I am Czech,’ Sophie said in her own language, hoping for some reaction, but Cathy looked blank, so she repeated it in English. ‘I am Czech.’

‘Oh. Czech.’ Cathy frowned. ‘What are you doing in England?’

‘I am here to see you, Anya.’

A flush of anger ran up Cathy’s face. ‘Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Cathy, Cathy Brougham. I was Cathy Gowrie, but I have never been called Anya.’ But she looked again at the photocopied face of their mother, bewilderment in her eyes. ‘Who is this, anyway? It isn’t me, although it looks like me. Who is it?’

‘Our mother.’

Cathy Brougham felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. She gave a shaken gasp. ‘What? What are you talking about?’ She almost ran over to a table and picked up a photograph in an ornate silver art nouveau frame, held it out to Sophie. ‘This is me, with my mother. She doesn’t look anything like this!’ and she held out the photocopied photo too so that the faces were side by side.

Sophie took it eagerly and looked at the dark-haired little girl in a cream straw bonnet and embroidered frock, unsmilingly leaning against a thin, pale woman who had a tight, possessive arm around her shoulders. So that was Mrs Gowrie? She looked neurotic, or was she simply ill?

It must have been taken shortly after they left for America; the child was the same age as the photo of Anya she had brought with her. Sophie hunted among her pile of photographs, found it and held it out.

Cathy was oddly reluctant to take it; she felt a shiver of premonition, her skin icy, and hung back, her hands by her side. She had never been prone to belief in the supernatural, in second sight or having her fortune read, she didn’t believe in all that stuff, yet suddenly she was afraid, although she didn’t even know what it was that frightened her, only that, although her rational mind told her that this was all nonsense, she was afraid it might be true. No. No. Sophie Narodni must be trying to play some confidence trick on her. Hoping to get money out of her?

Yet she seemed genuine enough. Indeed her face was disturbingly convincing. That was real emotion in those blue eyes. She’s probably crazy, Cathy thought. She has to be. It isn’t true, any of it, but she believes it, so she must be mad.

‘Take it, Anya, look at yourself,’ Sophie said gently, pushing the photo into her hands.

Cathy took one look then sat down on the floor again, her knees giving under her, her eyes wide and dark with shock as she took in the identical faces. Both herself. She couldn’t deny it, but there had to be some other explanation, she just had to find it, and find it she would. She wasn’t being taken in by some photographic trick.

She looked angrily at Sophie Narodni. ‘Where did you get this picture of me? I’m not stupid, you know. I see how you played this trick – you got hold of newspaper photographs, and had them photocopied then re-photographed, very enlarged. It’s obvious how you did it. The press are always printing old photos from our family albums, and all my life I can remember posing for the press photographers too. This is a photo of me taken when we first came back to the States.’ But her eyes went back to the photograph of the young woman in a strange, old-fashioned wedding-dress, and she frowned, unable to explain that one.

Sophie saw her glance at it and frown; and gently said, ‘No, Anya, that is not you – it is our mother.’ Her eyes were full of sympathy and anxiety. She had expected disbelief but she had not understood quite how much of a shock it would be for her sister. Should she have come here? Should she have told her?

But I had to – I promised Mamma I would find Anya and bring her home. I just hadn’t realized what it would mean for Anya. She doesn’t want a sister, she has had a whole life of which I have no share. I have thought of her all my life, I have loved her, even when I believed her dead – but Anya has not even known I existed, and can I blame her if she hates me for what I am doing?

‘This is my mother.’ Cathy held out the silver-framed photo in a shaking hand. Sophie looked at it and sighed.

‘That is Mrs Gowrie. She may have been your mother for as long as you can remember, but she isn’t your real mother, and Mr Gowrie isn’t your real father.’

Cathy felt a stab of shock and pain. Her voice hoarse, she said, ‘Stop telling these lies! I don’t want to hear any more!’

‘It’s the truth. They adopted you, when you were two years old, just after this photo of you was taken for our mother. I was born a few weeks after you were taken away to America. My mother lied to me, told me you were dead, I used to be taken to visit your grave, I had no idea you were still alive until a couple of months ago when I was coming to the States and my mother told me the truth. She has leukaemia – she’s afraid she’ll die without ever seeing you again, and that nobody will ever know you’re still alive.’

‘Leukaemia?’ The shock of that news froze Cathy.

‘They’ve given her three months to live,’ Sophie added.

Huskily, Cathy said, ‘I’m sorry. That must be hard for you.’ The more she looked at the photos, at Sophie, the more she was afraid this might all be true. Instinct kept tugging at her like an importunate hand. Every time she looked into this other woman’s face she felt a pang of emotion she couldn’t quite define, had never felt before.

Sophie sighed. ‘Yes, it was a terrible shock when she told me, I couldn’t take it in at first. It came out of the blue. She always seemed so strong, and now suddenly she is very frail, she has no energy, she is so pale and limp, I hardly knew her last time I saw her.’

Cathy stared at the photo of the young girl in the wedding-dress, moved by the thought that time had ruined both of them, girl and dress, worn down their strength and left them fading, grown thin as a yellow leaf on an autumn tree.

‘I’m sorry. My own mother has been ill for a long time,’ she said.

‘
She
is your mother,’ Sophie said fiercely, tapping the photo. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Anya.’

Cathy’s temper flared again. ‘Don’t call me that! I’m Cathy Brougham. What are you after? Money? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You want me to pay you to keep quiet. Well, you’ve got me wrong if you think I’ll fall for this cheap blackmail, I won’t pay you a cent, and when my husband finds out about this you’re going to regret it. You’ll end up in jail!’

Sadly Sophie said, ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Anya, believe me. I suppose I shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have told you – but I can’t let my mother die without seeing you again at least once. You don’t need to be afraid, I’m not here to blackmail you or threaten you, I just needed to see you, face to face. I think I only half-believed it until now. I do understand how you feel, you see. I was incredulous at first. It’s very hard to believe. But I guess that deep down I wanted to believe it. I’ve spent my whole life thinking about you. I used to go to the churchyard and sit by your grave and talk to you, I believed you could hear me in heaven and I needed a friend, needed someone to talk to, someone to care about.’