Walking in Darkness (35 page)

Cathy’s eyes were red-rimmed with weeping, her hair tousled from tossing and turning. She did not want Paul to see her looking like that. She stayed in bed, listening, half afraid he would shout at Sophie, or bully her, yet why did she care? Sophie had ruined her life. She wished she had never even heard her name.

She heard their voices but too low to make out words until Paul’s voice came again from near the door.

‘Good night, no more bad dreams,’ she heard him say, and then Sophie’s softer, foreign-accented voice murmuring.

‘Sorry I woke you . . .’

The yellow beam of light vanished; there was a click as the door shut, and she tensed, waiting to see if he would come to bed now, but his footsteps softly moved away. She tracked him like a bat tracking prey, her ears sharp as radar, identifying where he was going and understanding with a pain of the heart what it meant.

He was sleeping in the room at the end of the corridor, the room kept for unimportant visitors, a little cell of a room, barely furnished and remote.

He would not come to bed tonight. It was the first time they had slept apart since they were married, except when Paul had to go abroad and couldn’t take her. She knew it was a dangerous corner in their lives. Would he ever come to her bed again?

From Sophie’s room there was silence. I hate her, thought Cathy, her teeth meeting. I wish she was dead. I should have let those men take her tonight; why did I stop them? I could kill her myself. If I killed her and we never said a word about all this, we could go back to the way it was . . . we could be happy again.

Her heart ached. She shut her eyes, wishing. We were so happy before she came. Oh, I wish . . . I wish I could have that time back, is it too much to ask?

Yet inside her head a cold, still voice asked remorselessly . . . could they? Would she ever be happy again now that she knew how much her family money meant to Paul? Had he ever loved her? Had it always been her fortune alone that attracted him? A man who was deeply in love did not change so much so fast. All this time he must have been pretending . . . lying to her, acting.

How had she been so hoodwinked, so blind to how he really felt?

Cathy’s alarm didn’t wake her because she was already awake. She had slept very little all night and was lying in bed staring bleakly at the light filtering through her curtains when her alarm shrilled. She stopped it and got out of bed, her body heavy and dull, her mind much the same. She had never felt less like getting up. This was going to be a day to be endured rather than lived through, but there was no point in hiding in bed, she had to face what was coming, so she walked like a zombie into the bathroom.

As she left her room ten minutes later she had a sudden wild hope that it had all been a bad dream, that yesterday hadn’t happened, there was no Czech girl in the house, claiming to be her sister. She stopped to listen at the room next door to her own, her heart beating fast, and then shut her eyes with a muffled groan as she heard a movement.

After a long breath, she tapped on the door. ‘Can I come in?’

There was a pause, as if the girl inside was startled, then Sophie said in a husky voice, ‘Yes. Of course,’ then, ‘Good morning,’ as Cathy opened the door. Sophie was out of bed, standing beside an open wardrobe in the dressing-gown Cathy had lent her. She had obviously had a shower. Her blonde hair was damp, her feet bare and pink.

‘How are you this morning?’ Cathy could see she looked much better than she had last night; she had some colour in her face, anyway. ‘Did you sleep well?’ She tried to keep the irony out of her voice but her mind was full of it.

‘Yes, thank you, I hope you did.’ Sophie sounded like a little girl trying to be grown-up. Had she picked up on the real feelings inside Cathy? ‘I was looking for my clothes,’ she went on, looking around the room. ‘I can’t find them.’

‘Nora has washed them, they were in such a mess, damp and very muddy where you fell on the wet road last night – you couldn’t have worn them. You’re my size, more or less; come back to my room and pick out something to wear.’

Sophie’s eyes glistened, close to tears. ‘You’re very kind. I’m sorry, I’m giving you a lot of trouble.’

‘Yes, you are,’ Cathy bluntly said, but somehow no longer wanted to shout at her, hit at her. Sophie looked so helpless; those were real tears, not pretence, and, face to face, Cathy couldn’t help believing that this woman was sincere, totally genuine, was not lying. It was bewildering.

‘But lending you clothes is not part of the problem,’ she added. ‘I have a lot of clothes, and you’re very welcome to borrow some. You’d better hurry, we have a breakfast date.’

Sophie instantly paled, alarm in her eyes. ‘With the senator?’

Cathy hated the fear in her face and felt a wave of anger again. She had no cause to look like that. As if Papa would . . . She flinched away from the thought of what he would or wouldn’t do. Someone had tried to run Sophie down last night, she couldn’t deny that, she had witnessed it with her own eyes. But what had it to do with Papa? It had probably been some total stranger, crazy or drunk, who, having accidentally knocked her down the first time, had decided to finish the job to do away with the only witness. It couldn’t be anything to do with Papa.

Yet . . . why had his men burst in here last night to get Sophie? She shivered, remembering those moments before Paul arrived. She had felt so helpless.

How long had they been trailing Sophie? Had the driver of that car been one of Papa’s people? What orders had Papa given them? Oh, they had claimed they were just trying to stop a dirty-tricks campaign Sophie was part of, and Cathy wanted to believe that version of events, but it wasn’t easy. Once upon a time she wouldn’t even have considered the idea of her father killing anyone – or ordering someone else to kill. She knew, though, that he had to be tough to survive in the world of Washington politics; weak men went to the wall. She had lived with political realities all her life – she understood. To get to the top you had to be strong, even ruthless – but murder? That was something else again.

Abruptly, she told Sophie, ‘No, Steve’s coming.’

Sophie instantly lit up like a Christmas tree, her eyes shining with candles. ‘Steve? He’s here?’

She’s in love with him, Cathy thought; I knew she was, and he is obviously nuts about her, I picked that up just on the phone and he didn’t deny it when I asked him. So it’s mutual, and I’m not a dog in the manger. I didn’t want Steve that way, so I’ve no right to complain if he turns to someone else – but did it have to be her? I wonder, did he fall for her
before
he heard her story about being my sister? Does he think he sees some likeness? Or am I being a simple, hometown bitch?

Irritated with herself, she said brusquely, ‘He’ll be here in ten minutes, which is why we have to hurry. He’s staying across the road at the Green Man, he’s coming across for breakfast with us. You had better come to my room and choose something to wear.’

Sophie followed her back to her own room and watched as Cathy threw open her wardrobe.

‘What takes your fancy?’

Sophie hesitated, staring at the array of expensive, beautiful clothes and unable to reach out and take any of them. ‘You choose for me. Just jeans and a sweater would be fine.’

Cathy ignored that, pulling out a cool almond-green wool dress with a silver belt and holding it up against her. ‘This colour would suit you, it’s perfect for a blonde but I always look washed-out in it. Do you like it?’

Sophie smoothed a hand over the soft material. ‘I love it – are you sure you don’t mind? It looks expensive.’

‘I only wore it once. I’m sure it will fit you perfectly, we’re much the same size. Wait a second.’ Cathy hunted for lingerie; a lacy white bra, matching panties, a filmy slip in a very pale green, and dropped them all on the bed. ‘I’ll be downstairs, when you’re ready. Don’t take too long, will you?’

Before going downstairs, she paused outside the room she knew Paul had used the previous night, but there was no sound from him and she was afraid to tap on the door, afraid of how he might look at her, dreading coldness in his eyes, a distance between them growing, growing, until it became a gulf.

Had he slept much? She hadn’t; she had drifted in and out of restless, uneasy, anxious sleep, in and out of dreams she didn’t want to remember. She had cried a lot. Her eyes were still hot and sore from weeping so much; she had bathed them with cold water several times but it hadn’t done them much good. They ached; she put a cold fingertip on them and felt the heat radiating out from deep inside her eye-sockets.

While she was with Sophie she had relied on her long training in how to behave in public, how to keep your temper, however provoked, how to smile and smile even when you wanted to kill. So she had, somehow, been calm and polite to this girl who had come out of nowhere, without warning, and blasted her life apart the way a man with a gun blew away a pheasant.

Cathy had often gone out shooting with her father at Easton, but her attitude to the sport had changed after she spent a week with Paul at a big country house in Scotland. Each day the men had got up at the crack of dawn, while it was still dark, and vanished for most of the day. The women amused themselves at the house. Cathy had spent her time peacefully, a little bored, walking the family spaniels, playing with their hostess’s baby son, daydreaming about one day having a child of her own. Just holding the baby, warm and smelling of talc and milk, made her weak with tenderness.

On the final day, the women in the party had driven across the moors in a shooting brake to join the men, taking a picnic with them. It had been a raw autumn day, a herring-bone sky, silver, glistening, with lines of cloud feathering the distance, a chilly wind carrying the scent of heather and gorse, the panic cries of unseen birds, a smell of cordite. The women unpacked the picnic baskets, the wine, the baskets of sliced French bread, the smoked salmon and smoked ham, leaving the hot chicken and pasties in a bed of straw to hold the warmth as long as possible.

Through binoculars Cathy had hunted for Paul in a line of men all dressed alike, in tweed jackets and trousers. Her heart had moved with tenderness, she had thought again about the baby they would one day have, and then he had lifted his gun and she had instinctively followed the line of it upwards, and seen the birds flying, their feathers bright amber, turquoise, black, shimmering with beauty and bright life.

She heard the crack, crack, crack of the guns. Birds stopped in mid-flight, with a jerk, their wings drooped, and they spiralled downwards into the heather. Cathy had felt sick; it had been a moment of terrible grief and pity for the bright life blown apart. It had changed her right down at her roots. She had known at that minute that she would never kill a living thing again.

That was what Sophie had done to her yesterday – she had been happy, excited about her father’s visit, her sky had been blue, her wings carrying her, when suddenly she had been shot out of the sky without warning and plummeted to earth.

In his bedroom Cathy’s husband lay listening to the soft, barely audible voices of the women at the other end of the corridor. What were they talking about? Cathy had been angry when he spoke to her, had claimed not to believe a word of Sophie’s story, yet he had seen something very different in her face and voice last night. Bewilderment, curiosity, a protectiveness that was purely instinctive – she half-believed it, whatever she might say.

Blood talks to blood, he thought, even if you aren’t aware of what is happening to you. You gave it other explanations, made up other reasons for what you felt – but it was that basic, blood calling to blood.

A shudder ran through him. Oh, Christ. Sweet Christ. He still couldn’t believe it had happened to him. To them. Blood calling to blood . . . yes, and the family face . . . features so alike, instantly familiar, making the heart ache without knowing why.

He hadn’t slept at all, he’d been far too shocked – yet he wasn’t tired. He was wide awake, his body so tense that he felt he was on wires, like one of those puppets in old TV programmes, jerking along in slow movement, not quite co-ordinating, hands moving, then feet, mouth clacking open and shut, eyes staring this way, then that, the rest of the face all wood, flat-painted, unreal.

That was just it, he wasn’t real, he was no longer living in real time, in a real place. He was out of it, in limbo, struggling to come to terms with what fate had done to him. What was he going to do? Every time he asked himself that question he felt the world spin dizzyingly around him and the words break up, sting like poisonous insects. What? What was he? What was he going to do? Over and over and over again. What was he? What was he going to do?

He heard Cathy leave the other girl’s bedroom, heard her quiet footsteps, then her breathing outside his door.

He had to tell her the truth – but how? How could he? He shut his eyes, his stomach cramped; agony bled inside him, as if he’d swallowed broken glass. He had locked the door, she couldn’t get in, but he couldn’t bear it if she even knocked, or spoke to him through the door. Pain invaded every part of his body. He felt her out there, listening; the pulse of her came to him through the door, her body-warmth beating into him, making his body leap as it had from the first second he saw her. Sickness began to well up inside him.

Never again. He had to stop feeling like that. He must forget how he had felt once. Somehow he had to find the strength to walk away from her. Their marriage was over. He couldn’t stay with her.

But his mind pulsated with images of them in bed, moving hotly, or in slow, sensuous delight . . . her mouth . . . her breasts . . . the hot, moist warmth between her thighs, into which he plunged again and again . . .

Christ, no! Don’t remember. Mustn’t remember. He had to leave her. But he could never tell her why. He could imagine how she would look at him if he tried to explain . . .

He couldn’t bear to hurt her like that.

But he was hurting her, wasn’t he? She was bewildered, unhappy, confused, and he was making it worse for her. But what else could he do? He was trapped; he couldn’t see any other way out. Could she hear his breathing? Did she guess that he was awake but pretending to be asleep? Of course she did. She wasn’t stupid. Oh, God, my love, Cathy . . . He hated knowing what he was doing to her, but . . . what could he say? It was over. Over.