"Wonderful. Shall we say ten o'clock?"
In the dining room the men had changed places. Otani and Simon were locked in conversation whilst Arthur Graham was regaling the others with an interminable anecdote.
Otani glanced along at Graham and said to Simon, under his breath, "I don't know why you tolerate him. I could provide you with a lawyer fifty times as sharp."
"Arthur was a very good friend of my father, and has served me well over the years."
"Loyalty is an honourable virtue, though sometimes not a practical one. I shall get my man to contact you."
Simon said nothing. Otani controlled so much of his life now, what did it matter if he wanted to get finger-holds into the rest of it? Simon was weary, too weary to fight any more. He looked across at David who was staring off into space, his glass of port sitting in front of him untouched. How he wished now he had confided in his friend at the outset. Once time passes and events pile upon events it becomes increasingly difficult to broach a subject that should have been out in the open in the first place. Circumstance standing in the way of candour. And now it was all too late. Too late for David and Heather, too late for him. May God forgive him because he would never be able to forgive himself.
He watched as David got to his feet and swayed towards the french doors. "Going to clear my head," he said to no one in particular, and lurched out into the night. Simon made as if to follow him but Otani's hand clamped like a vice on his arm. "Only a fool drinks if he can't hold his liquor. Let him walk it off. I suspect he has a lot of serious thinking to do."
Simon pulled his arm away. "David is my oldest friend," he said.
"Then you must go to him...but don't expect him to thank you for it. I sense that David is a proud young man, and part of that pride was based on the relationship he shared with you. That can never be the same now and he recognises it. It's time you did too."
Simon swore softly and slumped back into his seat. Otani smiled and Simon wanted to smash a fist into that smooth assured face, but even that pleasure was beyond him.
The cool night air caressed David's face and made him shiver. He walked, keeping close to the house, stumbling occasionally on the gravel path. The wine he had drunk was making his head spin, and made rational thought difficult. All he could focus on was the look of anger in Heather's eyes, and the significance of that look. He felt a sense of utter betrayal. First Simon and now Heather. The two people he felt closest to had turned on him. Simon by hiding so much from him, Heather by siding with total strangers against him.
He wished now he could turn back time, to the moment he received the telephone call from Simon. He had been so thrilled to hear from his old friend that he had not even stopped to wonder if things would be different between them. He had assumed they would just pick up where they had left off and the friendship would continue unchanged. Perhaps it was his own naivety that was to blame. People do change, they move on, he probably had himself.
"Accept it," he muttered to himself. "Accept it and let it go."
He reached the annexe at the side of the house. There was a doorway with three stone steps leading up to it. He sat on the top step and rubbed his face with his hands, balling his knuckles and pressing them into his eye sockets, trying to ease the headache that had started to throb behind them.
A noise behind him made him look round. The door to the annexe had opened and Akira was standing there, silhouetted by the light behind him. He stared at David dispassionately, but his lean body was tense, like a coiled spring.
David pushed himself to his feet. "Don't mind me," he said. "Just getting some air."
Akira stepped back inside and opened the door wide. He beckoned David inside. David hung back for a moment, then followed the old man into the annexe.
A dingy corridor led into a room lit with candles and decorated with Japanese silk pictures and various ornaments, all with an eastern flavour. A fireplace was hidden behind a screen decorated with a representation of rural Japan. In the corner stood a suit of armour that probably once belonged to a samurai warrior. Above it, hanging on the wall by a hook, a long ceremonial sword, its hilt encrusted with small jade stones, its blade ensheathed in tooled leather.
In the centre of the room was a table covered with a burgundy cloth. Akira had placed a pad of paper on the table and was standing over it, a pen poised in his hand. He looked up at David and waited until he had the younger man's attention. Then he began to draw in broad, black strokes.
From where he stood David could not see what was being drawn. He moved round to stand behind Akira, watching over the old man's shoulder as he worked. He was drawing butterflies, or what looked like butterflies. In the centre of the page was a rectangular object and the butterflies seemed to be circling it.
Akira stopped drawing and looked back at David. The face was expressionless. He gestured to the paper.
"I'm sorry," David said. "I can't make out what it is you're trying to draw."
A momentary frown flickered across the old man's face and he rested the pen on the paper once more and began to make some bold, swirling strokes. It looked like flames. No, a single flame, issuing from the top of the rectangle.
"A candle," David said. "And these things," he gestured to the winged creatures, "They're not butterflies, they're moths."
The old man smiled and continued. In the centre of the candle a few rapid strokes of the pen outlined another creature.
"A dragon," David said. "Moths to a flame, and the flame is a dragon. I'm sorry I don't understand." The old man put the pen down next to the picture. He pointed to the moths and then to David and made fluttering motions with his hands. And then he started to laugh. A high keening laugh that sounded like a frightened animal.
David looked at him curiously, curiosity turning quickly to revulsion as he realised that Akira did not possess a tongue. A blackened stump of flesh vibrated at the back of the old man's mouth as he laughed, making the sound of his laughter shrill and inhuman.
From somewhere in the house a bell rang twice and the laughter stopped as if turned off by a switch. Akira took David by the arm and propelled him towards the door. David pulled back and grabbed the picture from the table. "May I keep this?"
The old man looked doubtful for a moment, then nodded his head and urged David to leave.
As the door closed behind him he looked once more at the picture, then folded it in quarters and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He felt remarkably sober as he walked back to the main part of the house.
The dining room was deserted as he came in through the french doors. From the hallway came the sounds of people taking their leave. The dinner party was obviously over.
He walked quickly through to the morning room in search of Heather, but this room too was empty apart from the pale young woman who was sitting at the piano, her twisted hands poised over the keys, the fingers making the same twitching movements as before. Tears were running down the young woman's face, and she was rocking backwards and forwards on the piano stool in time to music only she could hear. She looked up at David, her eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling. With a gasp of despair she slammed down the lid of the piano and pounded her withered hands on the gleaming mahogany.
"Margaret! That's enough!" Her companion stood in the doorway, a raincoat clutched in his hands. He strode across the room and draped the raincoat over the young woman’s trembling shoulders. He helped her to her feet and led her from the room. He did not even glance at David who stood there, open-mouthed and speechless.
"I'm sorry you had to witness that." Anna had followed the young man into the room and was standing by the piano. She lifted the lid and played a fluid scale with one hand. "She used to be quite famous before her illness. Margaret Courtney. I have a recording of her playing Rachmaninov's second with the New York Philharmonic."
The name rang a distant bell in David's mind. He had heard of her but he could not place when and where.
"I'm afraid she has not been the same
since," Anna continued. "It's so tragic, to be robbed of one's talent at such an early age. Her husband has so much to contend with; so many visits to the hospital, and the money he's spent on specialists... Luckily my father is a very understanding and generous employer. Were you looking for Heather?"
David frowned. "Yes, I was," he said tersely. He had no desire to have a conversation with Anna.
"She's gone up, I'm afraid. She wasn't feeling too well. A headache, I think."
She moved to the drinks table and poured herself a long measure of gin. "Can I get you one?"
"I think I'd better go up too."
Anna pouted. "Oh, surely you have time for a night-cap." She poured another glass and brought it across to him. "Here, I hate drinking alone."
"No, I'm sorry. I'm feeling very tired. It's been a long day."
Anna stood, holding the glass out to him, but David walked past her without even a nod of good night. At the door he stopped and glanced back at her. The light from the crystal chandelier in the centre of the room was catching the silk strands of the dragon motif on her dress, giving the creature the illusion of movement. Slowly Anna turned to face him, a slight smile touching her lips. "Good night, David," she said. "I'd like to think that one day we can be friends."
"Good night," he said stiffly and walked from the room.
He reached the upstairs passageway and walked quietly along, stopping outside Heather's room and pressing his ear to the door. There were no sounds of movement from within. He felt the need to speak to her, to heal the rift between them before it widened into an unbreachable chasm. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle, twisted it and pushed the door. The door did not open. Heather had locked it. He swore under his breath and continued along the passageway to his own room.
The cotton sheets felt smooth and cold against his skin. He lay in bed, looking about the room, its features softened by the pale glow from the bedside lamp. He remembered all the times before he had slept here. The time Jane Desborough had come into the room after everyone else had gone to bed. How she had sat and talked to him, the conversation lasting long into the night. He could no longer remember the crisis in his personal life that had prompted her concern, but he remembered the warmth he felt towards her, that she had taken the time and trouble to come in and counsel him. Vivid in his memory was the tenderness of her smile, and the softness of her lips as she had kissed his cheek good night. Also vivid was the aching sense of loss he had felt when the door had closed behind her and her footsteps had receded along the passageway.
He felt the same sense of loss now. Only this time he was mourning the loss of his friend.
With a sigh of defeat he switched off the lamp and closed his eyes.
He had no idea how long he had been asleep when he heard the door open, and felt the mattress dip as a smooth warm body slid into the bed beside him. Soft fingertips traced the contours of his back, travelling down to caress his buttocks. Gradually he was becoming aroused but was frightened to move in case he ruined the mood of the seduction. The hand slid round to his chest, the fingers entwining themselves in his chest hair, flitting lightly across his nipple.
He could smell her now, a dusky scent, unfamiliar yet deeply arousing. Not perfume, but a natural smell of musk. He opened his eyes but the darkness in the room was absolute. Soft lips pressed against his neck and he heard her whisper his name in a breathy, sensuous voice.
His senses were being bombarded by an intense sexuality unlike anything he had experienced before. Arms wrapped themselves around his torso and legs entwined in his, a foot stroking his calf, sharp toenails scoring gently down his skin. He breathed her name, "Heather," and twisted round to kiss the waiting lips. A kiss so passionate that it left him gasping for air. But the lips were insistent, the tongue probing his mouth, the teeth nibbling the tender flesh of his bottom lip.
She rolled on top of him, straddling him with her thighs. He could see her outline in the darkness, a black shape more solid than its surroundings, writhing in an animalistic ecstasy. Then she leaned forwards to kiss him once more.
As the long strands of silky hair brushed across his face he cried out, bucking and twisting his body to throw the woman off. Above him came a feral snarl and a hand lashed at his face, long fingernails scratching his cheek. David thrust his feet into the mattress and arched his body, feeling the weight leave him and fall to one side. With a sob of relief he reached for the bedside lamp.
His hand found the lamp-switch and flicked it on, yanking his hand back with revulsion as a dozen fat-bodied moths dropped from their perch inside the lamp-shade and started to circle the light. Beside him the bed was empty. He was alone in the room.
Heather awoke suddenly from a dream. In the dream she was back in the Japanese garden. This time though she was not alone. David was standing at the temple door, banging on the carved wood with his fists. There was absolute silence. David was shouting; she could tell that by the contorted expression on his face and the way his mouth was working, but she could hear no sound. The silence swamped the garden, a silence so profound it was almost a physical presence.
She was standing under a copper-leaved acer, watching David but unable to move towards him; and he seemed unaware of her. He pounded the door, tears streaking his face as, slowly, his legs crumpled beneath him and he sank to his knees. An arm encircled her shoulders and she turned to see Anna standing beside her, smiling; a smoky, seductive smile that Heather was not prepared to interpret or understand. Anna's fingers caressed her neck, snaking up to entwine themselves in her cropped blond hair. Heather felt her scalp tingle, the sensation spreading through her body.
She looked back at the doorway but David had gone. The door was open and she could smell the incense wafting out on a warm breeze, adding its perfume to the alluring scents of the flowers in the garden.
Anna whispered in her ear, breaking the silence. "Come, Heather. You can't help him now."
And then David's voice, crying out in pain and terror. A sound so harrowing it brought her awake with a start.
Her mouth was dry and the headache that had cut short her evening and prompted her to go to bed, was still nagging away behind her eyes. She reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and had it inches from her lips when she saw the hawk moth floating on the surface. It flapped its wings feebly and was close to drowning. "You poor thing," Heather said, and dipped her finger into the water. The moth, sensing the life-line it was being offered, crawled swiftly up Heather's finger and onto her hand, where it settled for a while to dry off.
Keeping her hand still, Heather slipped out of bed and padded across to the window, by which time the moth had recovered sufficiently to crawl the length of her arm and onto her chest, where it settled on her breast like a living brooch. Heather opened the window, cupped her hand over the moth and set it down on the windowsill, nudging it gently with her finger, encouraging it to fly. The moth crawled around in a circle, seemingly unwilling to leave, then, with a buzz of its exquisitely patterned wings, it took off into the night.
Heather watched it until it was out of sight and was about to close the window when she stopped. Something was moving on the grass. Something large, black and sleek, a shadow darker than the other shadows in the garden.
It was moving away from the house towards the orchard, seeming to slither over the grass in a motion unlike any animal she had ever seen before. The body was long and low, close to the ground, and she got the impression it was covered in dense black fur. It was travelling fast, twisting itself from side to side in a sinuous, fluid movement.
As if aware it was being watched the creature stopped, turning its pointed head towards the house, sniffing the air, scenting her. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and for an instant she caught a glimpse of two glittering eyes which seemed to bore into her own, before the thing writhed and shuddered and moved swiftly on, becoming lost amongst the shadows of the orchard.
She watched for a while, in case the creatu
re re-appeared, but eventually the chill night air against her naked flesh drove her back to the warmth of the room and she closed the window.
The long-case clock in the downstairs hall chimed four. Heather climbed back into bed. The dream was still playing on her mind. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Anna's beautiful face hovering inches in front of her own. There was something incredibly magnetic about the woman and Heather felt drawn to her in a way she had never experienced before. Except perhaps during her first year at senior school when she had developed a crush on her history teacher, Miss White. The crush had lasted a full term and was intense. She had even copied the teacher's hairstyle, a severe bob, sleek and smooth, cut to her jaw-line.
The summer holidays had ended the crush. Six weeks away from school and the sudden discovery of boys, or rather one particular boy who had swept her off her feet during a fortnight spent in Brittany. Jean Paul had laid the crush to rest. Until today. Now she found herself attracted to Anna Otani in a way that echoed the turmoil of emotions she had first experienced when she was just eleven years old.
David twisted and turned in the bed, the memory of the seduction making sleep impossible. It was Anna, of that he was in no doubt. It could only have been her. But how did she manage to get out of the room in the few seconds between him throwing her off and then switching on the light? The moths were a distraction, but even so...
Guilt was nagging away at him as well. How could he possibly tell Simon of this? Anna was the woman he had chosen for his wife, his companion for life. Would he be heartbroken, or angry at David? Would it drive the wedge that existed between them even deeper, shattering the friendship once and for all? The questions tumbled over and over in his thoughts, until finally, unable to find any peace at all, he drew back the covers, pulled on his robe and went downstairs.
There was a light burning in the kitchen and the back door was open. David crossed to the sink, took a glass from the drainer and filled it with cold water from the tap. He drank it down in one long swallow, walking to the back door and looking out into the garden.
Echoes of Darkness Page 23