Women and War (64 page)

He knew. He knew the way she felt about Richard. How could she have hoped to keep it from him? God what a mess!

The pastureland was eaten up by the flying hooves of the bay and still the thoughts whirled round Alys' head. She loved Richard. It was true. From the first moment they had met she had known he could be special to her, the one person who could stir in her the feelings she had experienced for Race – and make her forget the tragic ending to that affair. But he had belonged to Tara. Now it seemed that marriage was all but over. If she was free they could have found happiness together, perhaps. But she was not free. She was committed to John. And she would never do anything to hurt her husband.

That much, at least, she owed him.

Tara came offstage with the deafening applause ringing in her ears. She had made it. A rave success at the Capitol, Sydney. Everything she had ever dreamed of. But there was a hollowness deep inside her that she could not for the moment identify and when she did, wished she had not.

‘Dev, I'm scared,' she said.

He had been in the dressing-room waiting for her, not a cramped shared dressing-room now but her own, equipped with a washbasin, easy chairs and a couch and with her shimmering, glitteringly glamorous dresses hanging beneath a plastic cover on a rail in the corner.

‘Why scared?' He was stretched out in one of the easy chairs, smoking. ‘Scared is what you should be before a performance. You've finished now and you were a great success.'

‘I'm scared because of Red,' she said.

She sat down in front of the brightly lit mirror and began wiping off her make-up with wads of cotton wool and Leichner cream. As the greasepaint came off the pallor of her face was obvious.

‘Relax,' Dev said. ‘You've not heard any more of him, have you?'

‘No, and that's why I'm scared. He doesn't give up easily, Dev. He's not that sort of man.'

‘Look, be reasonable.' Dev stubbed out his cigarette. ‘What can he do?'

‘I don't know. Anything. Red can do anything.'

‘Correction. He used to be able to do anything. But he's not the man he was. He's been in prison for years. Others have taken up the reins of power. All Red Maloney is now is a lot of empty threats.'

She shook her head. ‘He's dangerous. Maybe even more dangerous if he feels weak. I know him. I lived with him, remember?'

A wry smile twisted Dev's mouth. ‘How did you explain him to Richard, I'd like to know.'

She avoided the question. ‘There's only one way I'll ever feel safe from Red – when he is lying under six feet of earth.'

‘So – employ a hit man.'

Her eyes flicked up, full of horror, to meet his in the mirror.

‘You're not serious!'

He lit another cigarette. ‘ Why not?'

‘Because it would make me no better than him, that's why not! Killing is a mortal sin.'

He laughed. ‘Still the good Catholic girl, in spite of everything. Well, if you won't employ a hit man you could always say a few rosaries.'

She tossed aside the used wad of cotton wool.

‘You don't understand, Dev. He's ruthless.'

He stood up and came across to her, putting his cigarette down in the ashtray on her make-up table and placing his hands on her shoulders.

‘He's just a man, Tara. Only a man.' He was massaging gently, easing the tension out of her. ‘Do you want to go somewhere to eat first or shall we go straight home?'

She sat quite still. His touch was arousing her as well as relaxing her, stirring the longing to have his arms around her, his body close to hers. That way and that way alone she could feel safe, losing herself and her fears in his strength.

She looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror, his swarthily dark face, his eyes brightly dangerous, desiring her, his mouth – the mouth that could make her forget everything else – twisted into a half-smile. She looked at his hands, still spreading and kneading her shoulders, the fingers square and strong, and the need was suddenly a fire in her. No one had ever made love to her the way Dev did. Not Red, experienced and generous though he had been; certainly not Richard, always restrained, always too much of a gentleman to satisfy her totally. But Dev – oh Dev. He had never disappointed her. How was it that men could perform more of less the same actions and yet make it so different? She did not know – or care very much. Only that Dev could make her forget all her fears and worries for a while, lose her in a maze in a strange land where only the responses of her body and his were important.

‘Which is it to be then?' Dev asked.

In the mirror her eyes met his. She put her hands up to cover his, feeling the tiny pinpoints of fusion spark between them like bare electric wires.

‘Just for the moment I don't want to do either,' she said.

She stood up, crossed to the door and slid the bolt home. Then she went to the couch, sat down on it and held her arms out to him, knowing that for a while at least the menace that was Red Maloney would be pushed away to the fringes of her consciousness.

In the big double bed she shared with John, Alys lay tautly awake, every nerve strained and listening. Beside her John's breathing was still deep and even, interspersed with small comfortable snores, and the warmth of his body glowed out towards Alys beneath the cool cotton sheets. A pleasant sensation. Sometimes when she could not sleep she curled herself around his back enjoying the contact and the knowledge that he, at least, was at peace with the world. Maybe he did know of her deep secret feelings for Richard but at least he did not let them disturb him unduly. He was too wise, too well adjusted for that. Jealousy was for younger, less self-assured men.

But tonight there was no comfort to be drawn from his sleeping body. Tonight, Alys was barely even aware of it. Her own nerves were too tightly drawn, her instincts too busy telling her something was wrong.

What had woken her? She did not know. Some small unconscious part of her remembered a sound that had jarred, something that should not have been, but now all was silence and she did not know what it was. A door slamming somewhere? The creak of a floorboard? I don't know. I don't know. But something … it was something …

A soft scuffling noise made her tense and she shot up in bed.

‘John. John!'

But still his breathing was deep and even. Her hand hovered over his shoulder then, on the point of waking him, she hesitated. Perhaps she was just imagining things.

‘I'll look in on Margaret and see that she is all right,' she thought.

She got out of bed padding barefoot across the rugs which covered the polished board floor and went down the landing towards Margaret's room. A nightlight was burning there, bathing the room in a soft rosy glow. Alys crossed to the cot and looked in.

Margaret was sleeping as peacefully as John. Her curls were dark against the pillow; one small chubby hand lay on top of the covers, the other was bunched defensively against her cheek.

A smile curved Alys' mouth. It was the nanny's day off and she had put Margaret to bed herself tonight, bathing her and revelling in the sweetness of her firm pink body, tickling her toes as she dried them in the downy-soft towel and tweaking each one in turn: ‘This little piggy went to market; This little piggy stayed at home …'

When she had put Margaret into the cot she had stayed with her for a while, singing softly and not very tunefully until the child's eyelids had begun to droop. There had been no need for her to do it, she supposed. For all that she had been moved from pillar to post throughout her young life, Margaret seemed a very happy child. She did not seem to miss Tara or even her nanny, smiling with her little rosebud mouth at whoever happened upon the horizon. Alys had remained with her even after she was asleep and for almost the first time she had been aware of a sense of deep regret that she would never be able to have a child of her own. What a wonderful feeling it must be to look at a small perfect human being and know that it had been created from your own act of love and born of your body. Lucky, lucky Tara. She had Richard and Margaret. But foolish Tara to spend them so carelessly.

If they were mine, thought Alys, I would never ever let them go.

Now, satisfied that Margaret was sleeping peacefully, she crept back to the door. After the rosy light in the child's room the landing was a passage of darkness. She was halfway along it when her senses screamed to her something was wrong – something was not as it should be. She froze, twisted, saw the dark solid shadows leap in the blackness, opened her mouth to scream and felt a hand clamp across it.

‘Don't make a sound and you won't get hurt.' The voice was low and urgent and above the level of her ear, indicating that the man, whoever he was, was much bigger than she. She tried to struggle and felt the strength of him, massive and immoveably rocklike. The way he was holding her she could not move a muscle except her feet. Wildly she kicked out, felt her heel connect and the hand tightened against her mouth.

‘Bitch! Any more of that and I'll break your bloody neck!'

Another form materialized out of the darkness. ‘ Who is it?'

‘Just some bloody sheila.' He shook her. ‘Where's the baby, huh? Tell us where the baby is and we'll leave you alone.'

Behind the muffling hand Alys squeaked indignantly, fear and shock dissolving into white hot anger as she realized these were no ordinary intruders but the very men they were supposed to be protecting Margaret from. How in hell had they found her? Oh, easy enough for some enterprising private eye, she supposed. They hadn't exactly hidden her away. But she was amazed that anyone should go to such lengths.

She was throbbing all over now with discomfort and she struggled again but the big man pinioning her merely held her more securely than ever, jerking her against the doorpost so that it provided a straight-jacket down her right side. The rim of the jamb bit into her cheek; if he pushed her harder she thought her cheekbone would splinter.

‘Now listen to me.' The second man materialized out of the shadows moving as softly as a cat. ‘ We're not going to hurt the kid. We just want to take care of her. So tell us where she is nice and quiet – no noise to wake up the rest of the house – and you won't get hurt.'

Alys' mind was crystal clear now and the thought uppermost in her mind was how close, how terribly close, they were to Margaret. Just a few steps from the door to her room – and that was ajar. If she woke, whimpered, cried out, there was no way they could avoid hearing her. Somehow she had to get them away.

‘Right. Tell me now. And remember – any funny business and you'll regret it.' The hand was lifted just far enough to allow her lips to move but ready to clamp down again at the first suggestion she might try to raise the alarm.

‘Downstairs,' Alys said. Her voice was muffled.

‘Downstairs?' He sounded incredulous.

‘Our spare room beyond the living room. Nanny can't manage stairs.' She prayed they did not know the nanny was in her early twenties, the keenest jiver in Victoria.

The hand was over her mouth again. ‘See if she's telling the truth!'

One of the shadows moved and she heard the man going down the stairs but her captor held her fast. She had the feeling he was enjoying himself, enjoying her helplessness. The seconds ticked by. Oh God, what now? Any moment and the other man would be back knowing she had lied.

With a superhuman effort Alys jerked her head and as the man's grip slipped slightly she sunk her teeth into the heel of his hand. He tore it away, swearing, and she screamed – ‘John! John!'

Oh, let him hear, please let him hear! Surely not even he could sleep through this!

‘Bitch!' The man punched her. Her head cracked against the door jamb and both sides of her face went ice cold numb. She screamed again – and saw the light go on in their bedroom.

It seemed then that everything happened at once. Footsteps running back to the stairs; John rumpled from sleep silhouetted in the doorway of their room wearing his blue and white striped pyjamas; something cold and sharp pressing against her throat. And in the quiet of the night Margaret's sudden frightened wail.

‘What the hell is going on?' John asked. His words were drowned by the second man's thundering footsteps on the stairs. She saw him emerge from the well, every inch a hoodlum.

‘In there,' her captor hissed. ‘The baby's there. Get her.' John took a step forward and the blade bit at her throat. ‘Keep back you – or she gets it!'

Horror, pure and stark, flooded her. There was nothing they could do. If John interfered her throat would be cut. In that moment she did not care – nothing mattered but saving Margaret – but she knew John would not do it. She was still too precious to him. Helpless, she watched the second man enter Margaret's room to emerge with the terrified child in his arms. At the foot of the stairs he shouted back: ‘Right. Clear. Come on – let's go!'

Her captor edged as far as the top of the stairs, the knife still at her throat. Then down, very slowly, step by step. Did they intend taking her with them? She almost hoped so. At least she would be with Margaret.

Halfway down the man pushed her aside and ran. She lay half stunned and saw John racing down towards her, leaping over her tumbled body, giving chase now she was no longer in danger. The man turned, dropping the knife, and she saw the glint of a different metal.

‘John – be careful! He's got a gun!' she tried to scream but no words came from her dry mouth.

And in any case her warning would have been too late. The gun cracked, a blue flash in the half-dark, and John was arrested in mid flight. Like a slow motion tableau she saw his hands go to his stomach. He took another step or two and the gun flashed again. He fell, his body crumpling, and went down on his knees. Somehow she was up and beside; him, looking down at the stain spreading scarlet on the blue and white pyjamas. And now she had found her voice again and was unable to stop screaming and sobbing.