In the Still of the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  Harriet looked disturbed. ‘Is she really going to need that?’

  ‘I hope to God not.’ But he sounded uneasy.

  Harriet rang for a taxi and left a few minutes later. Sean stood at the window to watch her drive away; he wanted to be quite sure there were no other vehicles around. But the long, dark street was quite empty.

  Sean made himself a stiff drink and was about to drink it when he heard a sound from the bedroom where Annie was sleeping.

  He hurried in there, but she hadn’t moved, she was still lying curled up in a foetal position under the dark blue duvet he had covered her with a while ago. He could see her hands half under her pillowed cheek, the feathery strands of pale hair hiding her eyes. She looked like a child.

  The faint sounds he’d heard were coming from her. He bent to listen, tentatively brushed some of the hair away to show him her face.

  Her eyes were closed, but there were tears stealing out from under the bruised-looking lids.

  She was crying in her sleep. Her lips moved; he just heard the name.

  ‘Johnny …’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, Johnny.’

  Sean straightened and walked out, his face stiff and cold.

  Who the hell was the guy? Well, it wouldn’t be hard to find out. Hadn’t she said he worked for a crime magazine? It should be simple to run a check on him.

  In her dream Annie was lost in the forest, running between the trees. But it wasn’t spring in her dream. It was high summer. Under the trees the green ferns whispered and swayed as she ran through them, she felt the caress of their smooth cool fronds against her bare skin.

  Bare. She looked down at herself and gave a gasp of shock. She was naked.

  The light filtering down through the canopy of leaves high above had a greenish tinge with sudden piercing rays of gold in it that dappled her skin and made her look like a forest animal, clothed to match her surroundings, as the deer she had once seen in a wild-life park, their smooth coats dappled to be invisible among the shadows of an English wood.

  And, like the deer, she was hunted.

  She heard the panting, the running of feet behind her, coming closer. Closer. Panic rose inside her. She ran on, looking over her shoulder, and with another shock recognised Johnny.

  She stopped still and he caught up with her. He was laughing, then they were on the ground among the ferns, and she opened her legs, groaning with need, and shut her eyes as he sank into her like rain soaking into the earth, natural, life-giving, necessary.

  When she opened them again they were in his grandmother’s house, on the hearth rug, lying sated and sweating in front of the fire, still trembling after making love. Although she didn’t look round, she knew the forest trees were crowding in around the window to watch them, but it wasn’t frightening, or even strange – she felt they were friendly.

  Johnny looked sadly at her. ‘Why did you do it, Annie?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Johnny,’ she sobbed, guilt overwhelming her. ‘I didn’t want to kill your baby. They made me.’

  ‘You didn’t have to give in to them. You could have refused.’

  ‘I was scared of them. I was much younger then, Johnny.’

  ‘When I was much younger than you my father used to beat my mother up all the time. I used to listen to her sobbing afterwards, and hate him. She was smaller than you. Her hair was like yours, fair and very fine, like feathers. She had big blue eyes like yours. She was helpless. My father was a big man, and enjoyed hurting people. But I stopped him. I made sure he never touched her again.’

  ‘But you’re strong, Johnny. I’m not. I’m weak.’

  ‘I know that now. A pity, Annie.’ There were tears in his eyes. He looked at her with such sadness. ‘Oh, such a pity. You’re like my mother; she was weak and helpless. But I took care of her, and I’ll look after you, too, don’t worry.’

  Annie woke up abruptly, in the dark, and lay there trembling. Some of her dream still echoed in her head. She tried to remember all of it, but couldn’t be sure she was remembering what she had dreamt, or what Johnny had actually said to her, in the house in front of the fire, after they made love.

  But then everything that had ever happened between them seemed dreamlike. She could almost believe she had imagined it all, or that their love had been just a dream.

  Maybe she was still dreaming?

  Maybe she had never woken up. Was she still asleep, but dreaming that she was awake? She couldn’t even remember what had happened before she went to sleep, what had happened last night.

  At that instant Derek’s face swooped at her out of the dark and she gave a smothered cry, her hand at her mouth.

  Derek. Derek was dead. Had been killed, murdered – how could she think about making love with Johnny, how could she think about dreams, about happiness, when something so terrible had happened?

  She had often been angry with Derek, often resented the way he preyed on her, blackmailed her … but she had had a sort of soft spot for him, too. There was something pathetic about him, almost lovable.

  Poor man, he had not been the wise, down-to-earth figure he had played in The Force. It was extraordinary, really, the way he had managed to make that imaginary character come to life, made people believe it to be him, but then she had often been bewildered by the confusion in viewers’ minds between the figure on the TV screen and the human being they met in the street.

  When you went on long enough you could become confused with the character you played. You could begin to wonder who you really were. Your own identity began to crumble at times; apart from the changing emotions you acted out you had no dimension. You were just a flat image on a flat screen.

  That was what had happened to Derek, too. He had been treated by the public and the press as a big name because of his part in the series, but Derek had actually been a man obsessed with failure, a star that had fallen, Lucifer-like, from a great height, after playing the major Shakespearian roles in his youth. He had drunk himself out of that world; you couldn’t drink heavily and go on stage every night to act a demanding role; you began to forget your words, you fell over the furniture, you missed your cues. Derek had gone on drinking, in the end, to forget how far he had fallen. He had been a very flawed human being, but he had had his virtues as well as his failings. He had been charming, when he chose, he had been far more supportive and helpful to other actors than Mike Waterford ever was, and he was often kind, even if he tended to sudden spitting spite.

  Now even his death would be written into the script. She knew how it would be – Sean would be ordered to write Derek a dramatic death. Shot on duty. Or killed in a bomb attack, or in a crashed car. Derek wouldn’t be allowed the dignity of private death. He had died in reality – now he would have to have a fictional, dressed-up death.

  And meanwhile the police were going to turn over every stone in his life until they found out all his secrets.

  There must have been secrets, she thought, frowning. Derek must have been killed for a reason. Who could have killed him? A stranger? Had someone broken into his flat to burgle it? Or had it been someone he knew?

  Oh, God. Fear made her spine icy. What if it was someone they all knew?

  She closed her eyes and kept very still like an animal in a jungle which wasn’t even sure what was terrifying it. She was too scared even to let herself think about who might have killed Derek.

  Billy Grenaby refilled his glass, offered another drink to Harriet, watching the soft curve of her breast as she reached for it. She had changed before joining him for dinner, and was wearing a soft, clinging pink dress which kept giving him glimpses of the half-moon of her breasts. Billy couldn’t stop looking at them. They were fuller than he’d imagined, and had smooth, pale skin that made his mouth go dry, made him think of touching them, letting his fingers slide down over them, to those hidden nipples.

  He was used to seeing her in jeans and sweaters, low-heeled shoes or boots. He liked her that way; it amused him, that boyish look, the straight, level way she
looked back at him. Harriet was someone he increasingly trusted and that wasn’t a sensation he had often had. But he liked her this way, too; it excited him to see her mouth full and warm with pink lipstick, her eyes dusted with something glittery, pearl earrings in her ears.

  It made it hard to keep his mind on what they were talking about, though, and he needed his wits about him over this business of Derek Fenn’s murder.

  He looked away, muttering, ‘If Halifax thinks she may need a good lawyer it probably means he knows she’s in this up to her neck, somehow. How explosive is this going to be, Harriet? Is it going to blow the series sky-high, or are we just in for a few days or weeks of rough weather?’

  She shrugged. ‘God knows. My priority is to keep the show on the road. Luckily, we’re shooting in the studio all the next week. No more locations for eight days, then we’re filming at the Stock Exchange and Billingsgate.’

  Billy chuckled. ‘Money and a fishy smell, eh? You know, I like the way Halifax thinks. So long as he doesn’t go too far. A little political satire gives the series a kick. Not too much, mind you. We don’t want to scare our audience away, they hate intellectuals.’ He turned serious again. ‘What about Annie? Is she needed on set?’

  ‘Of course. She’s in every script. We’ll have to rewrite to take Derek out, put someone else in … the other sergeant will have to take over, Bedingfield, the guy Harry Nash is playing.’

  ‘Nash?’ Billy looked blank, then his face cleared. ‘Oh, I’ve got him; tall, thin, going bald? Hasn’t got the same charisma Fenn had; even though he was on the skids and a hopeless drunk Fenn could still dominate a scene without trying. Nash hasn’t got that.’

  ‘Well, we don’t need anyone as charismatic as Derek as long as we still have Annie and Mike. The question is, while Sean is rewriting, should he take Annie out for the moment?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. Are you crazy? We use her while we have her.’

  Harriet frowned, shivered. ‘Don’t talk as if she might be guilty of something! I’m sure she isn’t. I know Annie pretty well and I can’t believe she’s involved in Derek’s murder.’

  ‘What do any of us know about each other?’ Billy asked cynically. ‘What do I know about you, or you about me?’

  Harriet gave him faint, amused glance. ‘Oh, I think I know what makes you tick, Billy.’ She was talking about money, and was surprised to see him blush.

  ‘That’s what you think,’ he growled, imagining that she had seen him looking down her dress, then hurried on, ‘Anyway, working will keep Annie’s mind off her problems.’ Billy paused, grimaced. ‘I still can’t see it … her and Fenn … She has that untouched look, that’s what the viewers love about her, her obvious goodness. Fenn was known for putting it about, even when he was a star. Annie was different.’

  ‘Stop talking about her in the past tense!’ muttered Harriet, scowling, and Billy gave her another quick, sharp look.

  ‘Don’t snap at me, Harry!’

  ‘And don’t call me Harry!’

  ‘If you don’t want me to give you a boy’s name, don’t go around looking like a boy!’

  She suddenly lowered her eyelids and looked at him through her lashes. Billy watched in something approaching shock.

  ‘Do I look like a boy tonight?’ she murmured, and his breathing quickened.

  God, she’s flirting with me! he thought, I don’t believe it.

  ‘No,’ he said, and wondered if he might finally be getting somewhere with her. He had never been sure how she felt about him. He was so much older than her, and God knew he was no oil-painting – he’d never dared risk an outright approach in case she turned him down. He hated rejection of any kind. Success was all Billy Grenaby was interested in.

  Her lashes lifted and she gave him a teasing little smile. ‘Then don’t call me Harry. And stop talking about Annie in the past tense.’

  ‘I’m not, it’s just that all she ever seemed to care about was work. The PR people never had to take care of any little scandals for her. She rarely even went out to dinner with anyone, let alone screwed them. It doesn’t seem to add up, to me. Fenn and Annie. No. Have you asked her? What does she say?’

  Harriet shook her head. ‘Denies it completely.’

  ‘Well, I’m inclined to believe her. Simply on character.’

  Billy leaned back in his deep, leather armchair and lit a Havana cigar. The ritual of doing so took several minutes; he didn’t hurry, just waited patiently until the end of the cigar glowed red. He could be patient in other directions, too. He would wait for Harriet as long as he had to, but he felt a tingle of eagerness as he felt her watching him with a faint smile.

  ‘So we trust to luck, in other words, and go ahead with our schedule?’ she said.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Billy smiled. The air was rich with the scent of the tobacco. Harriet had to admit it was a good smell and it always indicated that Billy had thought his way through a problem and was contented that he could handle it.

  She smiled at him. ‘But you will brief a good lawyer for Annie?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll make sure our lawyers are ready for anything. Even if it isn’t Annie who killed him, it might be someone else connected with the series.’ He grinned teasingly. ‘Could be you, sweetheart.’

  Harriet gave him a sweet smile. ‘If I murdered someone in the series, it wouldn’t be Derek Fenn.’

  He looked intrigued. ‘Who, then?’

  She shrugged lightly, thinking: you! You, Billy. You monster. Annie is in bad trouble and all you can think about is your series, your money-spinning, award-grabbing series. You don’t give a damn about Derek’s death, except as an embarrassment to you, and maybe a drop in viewing figures. As for Annie, well, if you think you need to, you’ll ditch her so fast her head will spin.

  And even though you’re always watching me in that obvious way you would be just as ruthless with me if you decided I had to be ditched, and I’m not taking any risks with you until I am sure where I really stand.

  But Billy was a good judge of character – it can’t be Annie who killed Derek. Billy’s right – it wouldn’t be in her nature. On the other hand, who on earth would have guessed that Annie with her innocent face and those big blue eyes had got pregnant when she was just a kid and had an abortion?

  Annie woke up next day before Sean. She was bewildered for a few seconds, staring round the bedroom and not remembering where she was or how she had got there. Was it a hotel?

  Sitting up, she looked down at what she was wearing – a blue and white striped cotton pyjama top? Huge, too. It wasn’t hers. A man’s? Panic leapt inside her. Whose? Then her memory clicked into gear; she remembered everything in a terrifying rush.

  Derek had been murdered. Strangled.

  The warm pink of sleep ran out of her face.

  Sean and Harriet had brought her here. She remembered Harriet sitting by the bed murmuring soothingly to her. Then she must have fallen asleep. Her head felt strange. Heavy. They had given her pills, she remembered. God, they must have been strong.

  Her eye fell on the small gold clock on the bedside table and she sat up hurriedly. Half-past six. She had to work today. She must get up.

  She looked across the room to the open door of the en-suite bathroom. Five minutes to shower, then she might feel more human. Pity she hadn’t a change of clothes. She would have to put on what she was wearing last night, the clothes piled on a chair by the bed. She had been wearing them all yesterday.

  Yesterday. Her eyes closed and she gave a long, rough sigh, remembering Johnny at the house, their house, their secret place. Her body ached with pleasure and memory. She had felt eighteen again; it wasn’t often that you got a chance to revisit your youth. It was so incredible, it was hard to believe it was true. But it was. Johnny was back with her again, and he still loved her.

  She opened her eyes with a start, remembering that he had said he would ring her last night. She hadn’t been there – he must have wondered what was going on. I should have a
sked for his number. I should have asked him where he lived, got his address. Why am I so stupid?

  She hadn’t thought of it. Hadn’t thought of anything but being with Johnny again at last. She had dreamt of that for so many years, obsessed with the memories of their brief time together, a happiness made impossible to forget by everything else that had happened at that time.

  It had indelibly impressed itself on her mind – her fear of Roger Keats, the shame and misery of what he had done to her, the tension of dealing with him that day in his office, and then Johnny’s disappearance, without explanation, and the grief of being forced into killing their baby.

  Why hadn’t she fought her mother harder? Why had she been so weak and spineless? She hadn’t wanted to give in, yet she had.

  She lifted her hands, screwed into fists, to her face, as if to beat herself, hammered them on her forehead, groaning aloud.

  Well, she had paid for it, ever since. She had been haunted by her lost baby, by memories of Johnny. In a way her whole life since had been shaped by the events of those few days eight years ago. She had only been half alive; she had put everything into her work, had very few friends and no lovers. She had been too scared to dare risk love again.

  When she saw Johnny again it was like being given a chance to begin her life for a second time, wipe out the past as if those eight years had never been.

  Going back to the house in the forest had made it even more dreamlike, at the same time even more real. It was so right to go there, to make love again, on the rug, in front of the fire in that room. Time, had whirled backwards; she had been a girl again, their loving so intense that it was like dying.

  And yet … and yet she felt the same throb of fear and sick excitement, the disorientation she had felt during the night, when she woke from that dream.

  Frowning, she tried to remember what she had dreamt, but it had all gone. Only the emotions remained.

  What is wrong with me? she wondered. What am I afraid of?

  A sound made her jump. She looked tensely at the bedroom door. It slowly opened and Sean stood there, bare-legged, in a black towelling robe which ended just at his knees. He smiled at her, raking back his untidy hair with one hand in a gesture half shy, half amused. ‘Oh, you’re awake. Did you sleep well?’