She hurried out of the bathroom, for the mirror gave her nothing but the apprehension in her eyes. What could she do while she waited for Ted? A manuscript lay in two piles on her desk, but she doubted she had time to read another chapter. She was surrounded by books, by stories. She felt walled in by unreality. There was nothing she could grasp.
Ted's window was still lit. She was on her way to her desk, to tell him to come over as soon as he liked, when the phone rang. Surely he wasn't calling to cancel his visit. "Yes?" she said anxiously.
"It's me," Angela said.
Barbara grew drunk with relief, and sat down hurriedly. ------------------------------------181
Her captors mustn't have seen her phoning, after all. Nevertheless Barbara demanded, "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course I am."
She sounded cross as any child who thought her mother was being too protective. Barbara felt obscurely cheated: how could she sound like that when she was in danger? Before she could think as well as feel she said, "Why are you calling?"
"Because I need you."
Barbara managed to hold back her tears, in case her weeping made her unable to hear. Angela must have reinterpreted the question, for she said, "Because we're going away."
"Where to?" Barbara's ear was aching, she was pressing the receiver so hard against herself. Angela must be in her captors' house, for she was speaking low. "Scotland," she said. "I can't tell you where."
Were they moving because they knew Gerry was looking for them, or had she passed herself off successfully? There was no way Barbara could have asked, even if Angela hadn't said, "I can't talk any more now. I've got to go."
For a while after the phone went dead, Barbara felt almost heartened. Angela was unharmed. She'd sounded impatient when Barbara had asked about her welfare simply because she didn't realize that she was in danger. But the more Barbara thought about that, the more dismaying it seemed. What might they be doing to Angela without her realizing? If Gerry hadn't found them by now, Barbara was the only one who had any idea where they were going. How could she bear to do nothing with that knowledge?
She was pacing the cage of her flat, glimpsing Ted's extinguished window and a monkish youth who must be admiring the church, when the doorbell rang. She couldn't ------------------------------------182
keep her plight to herself any longer. "Come and sit down," she said. "There's something I have to tell you."
She told Ted everything, over drinks which neither of them touched. He gazed steadily at her, one hand hiding his mouth and his feelings. When she'd finished she wished she had told him sooner; though he wasn't as informed as Gerry, he might be more supportive. But he said, "I don't understand how this cult is supposed to have faked Angela's death."
"Gerry Martin thought they might have killed one of their own children."
"Gerry Martin sounds rather a sensationalist. Does it really seem likely that the parents would let their child be killed just because someone else wanted Angela?"
Her forehead was tightening; she wanted comfort, not confusion. "Can you think of a better explanation?"
"If it wasn't for the evidence that this cult or whatever it is exists, I'd suspect you were being set up for extortion."
"I don't see that at all."
"Well, to begin with, it seems awfully convenient that Angela should start calling just after the article about you was published, don't you think? That could mean someone read the article and thought you must be making enough money to be worth trying. All these phone calls could be to soften you up so that when someone comes offering to bring back Angela you'll agree to anything. I'm not saying you would, only that they might think so. After all, the fact that the cult exists doesn't mean that Angela does." He sat forward and took her hand, which she let slump in his. "As far as I can see," he said, "the only reason to believe she's alive is that Margery Turner gave the impression she couldn't draw. Suppose that was part of her plan?"
"No, Ted. The reason to believe that Angela's alive is ------------------------------------183
that she has called me several times--twice since Margery's death."
"If that was Angela. If it wasn't Margery's accomplice, who has decided to carry on even though Margery is dead."
She managed not to snatch her hand away from him. Arthur would never have tried to argue her out of the truth, he would have stood by her until Angela was found. "Ted, I know you want to help, but you can't help by trying to tell me I'm wrong. I know it's Angela who calls."
"Are you sure? Has she ever said anything only you and she could know? Have you ever asked her to? Barbara, you don't dare consider that she might be a fake. You're wrecking yourself, and it may be for no reason."
She felt trapped by his concern for her, by the confusion he was creating. His large untidy face crowded her, and she felt like a child overborne by an insensitive adult, except that she wasn't a child.
"I know you blame yourself to some extent for what happened to Angela--was
"Oh, for God's sake, Ted. I don't blame myself to some extent, I blame myself totally. I have to be sure that this time I do everything I can."
"Well, just as you like. The last thing I want is to upset you further. It's only that looking at the situation objectively I find it hard to believe that anyone would have gone to the trouble of faking her death so that they could keep her."
"That's because you never wanted your own child. She was so much of a burden that you couldn't even live with her. Yet I wanted Angela more than anything else in the world, and I let her be stolen. It isn't fair."
She stopped, appalled. She wouldn't have blamed him if ------------------------------------184
he had left without another word, but he said, "So you'll be going up to Scotland next week."
"Yes, I have to. I've got to try and find her."
"You can't drive all over Scotland by yourself. It's a good thing you didn't manage to get me those reservations for Italy." She didn't trust herself to speak in case she broke down.
He must have realized that, for he held her without speaking for a while. Eventually they went into the bedroom.
Though she wanted to make love, she fell asleep in his arms at once. Except for his promise of help she had already forgotten everything he'd said. ------------------------------------185
185
Twenty-two
Outside Lancaster gray rock began to rise, tearing the fields and woods. On the Lakeland horizons mounds of haze were just distinguishable from the sky. Sometimes the mounds came closer, looming hundreds of feet above the highway. Streams and rivers glittered softly in crumbled valleys, sheep or boulders stood in the grass of the fells.
Beyond Carlisle the map was venous with rivers, but there was nothing to mark the Scottish border except a roadside sign and the sudden twist of apprehension deep in Barbara's innards. Soon the horizon looked layered with storm clouds, except that the closer layers were tinged green by grass. Above the road the slopes were pin-striped with bare earth or spiky with ranks of firs. Where the road grew straight she drove faster, anxious to reach the towns, dark enigmatic blotches on the map. ------------------------------------186
Dumfries was almost deserted when they reached it, a riverside town where nobody could direct them to a restaurant for dinner. At Kilmarnock factories stained the sky, featureless council estates boxed in a valley and relics of Robert Burns. She searched both towns desultorily; she couldn't imagine anyone trying to hide in either of them.
Glasgow seemed more promising. It was even larger than the blotch on the map had led her to believe, and appeared to be growing. Its edges ripped fields apart and strewed them with rock and litter, scattered gray fragments on the map. Further in, the buildings crowded out the green; pylons and tower blocks and factory chimneys stood over what was left. She had been in Glasgow two days now, and had scarcely explored the city center. She was beginning to realize how futile her search was.
She stepped off Sauc
hiehall Street and into the hotel, through blades of light trapped by the revolving doors. The chandelier above the foyer looked foggy; one of the nymphs supporting the balcony had a broken nose. In the lounge, residents were watching Ronald Colman as the Prisoner of Zenda on a chipped black and white television; one old lady was rapping the floor with her stick and crying "Donald" for a porter. She went upstairs.
Ted wasn't in his room. She had a shower in her bathroom, then she sat at her window. Office buildings Gothic as Chicago stepped down toward the River Clyde, cars jounced down the steep ramps of the streets; a few spires stood like faceless totem poles among the tower blocks on the far bank. A man whose face was red as cheap wine sat on the pavement opposite her window and managed eventually to remove his shoe so as to examine his bare foot. Along the street toward the Ocean's Eleven pub, from a passage where a feeble neon sign said billiards, she heard the click of balls through a lull in the traffic. Shoppers and tourists thronged past her window, and she ------------------------------------187
couldn't help searching their faces, even the distant faces which shifted in the heat and were never what they'd seemed. A Scottish publisher had once remarked to her that if you stood on Sauchiehall Street for long enough you would see the world go by. There was only one face in the world that she wanted to see, and the tradition seemed a cruel joke now.
The more she searched, the more difficult it grew. The simplest tasks were tortuous. The police and the Salvation Army were no help, but she couldn't tell if they had withheld information because she was so evasive. She mustn't tell them anything that might give them a reason to search; she didn't know if it had been Gerry Martin's search that had driven the group out of London. She could only hope that Gerry was with them now, finding out about them.
Why should they be in Glasgow? Barbara knew it was Scotland, and Gerry's list of places had implied that it would be a large town or a city, but Scotland had a dozen of those. She could only search doggedly and hope that her search was redundant. In the Mitchell Library, where girls let books out on parole from behind the counter, a librarian who obviously regarded her as a pestering eccentric directed her to the university, in case a researcher in local history could help. Nobody could, and she was reduced to wandering the streets, peering at buildings and faces. Half the time she felt she was being watched. No wonder Ted was worried about her.
Of course that was why he had come with her, not because he believed her. At least she'd persuaded him to go off by himself today. He'd noticed a bar beside the Inner Ring Road, and no doubt he was making the most of the liberal licensing hours, but she'd sent him off so that he would have the chance to write to Judy. After what she'd said to him about Judy, that was the least she could ------------------------------------188
do. She mustn't destroy whatever was left of his family life.
But now that he'd left her alone she could only brood. Though she'd brought material to read, she couldn't work just now. The interminable parade of faces went by in the street, the head of the shower snaked out of the dark of the bathroom mirror. When she began to stare at the phone she made herself go downstairs. She kept phoning Louise to ask if there were any personal calls and to leave her latest number, but if Angela or Gerry had phoned at all they might well have rung off as soon as they heard she wasn't there.
She lingered in the foyer while she tried to rid herself of the thought of Angela phoning the flat, at who knew what risk to herself, and getting no reply. In the lounge residents were knitting or doing crosswords, Ronald Colman was dashing about heroically. The residents looked faded as the armchairs; there was a faint musty smell of lavender water, a sense of growing old and trying not to notice. The street would be more bearable, despite the heat and the crowds. She could watch the faces and pretend she was looking out for Ted.
Better, she could buy the evening papers. That felt a little like hope. Perhaps a headline would give her a lead, or a paragraph somewhere in the paper would, or even an advertisement; there was always hope. She pushed through the revolving doors toward the faint unconvincing luminous crowd that became real once she was out of the glass, into the sunlight and dust and the roar of traffic.
The nearest kiosk was recessed in the corner of an office building. A woman with a pink cardigan draped over her shoulders sat behind the small counter, knitting a baby jacket. When Barbara had tried her hand at knitting for Angela, her attempt at a jacket had begun to unravel as soon as it came off the needles, and all she could do was ------------------------------------189
laugh at herself. Now she bit her lip so that the pain drove out the memory. She grabbed the evening papers and looked for something else to read.
The Cosmopolitan was last month's, which she'd read, and nothing else seemed worth reading. She found herself staring at Fate magazine, which both reminded her of the occult fringe and seemed to suggest that she resign herself. She picked it up unwillingly. She ought to look in there too, she couldn't afford to ignore any possibility of a lead. "I hope you find comfort there," the woman behind the counter said.
"Pardon?"
The woman withdrew quickly into herself. "Just the way you looked. No offence."
"I wasn't offended." Barbara fumbled in her purse. "I didn't understand what you said."
"So long as you don't think I'm prying." The woman gazed at her over the chattering needles. "Whoever you've lost, don't despair."
"I try not to," Barbara said, staring at her money to keep control of her emotions.
"Maybe you'll hear from them if that's what you want. Have you been to the Spiritualists?"
Barbara thought of hearing Angela's voice out of the air or from a medium's lips. "God forbid."
"Just asking." The woman had withdrawn again, it seemed this time for good. She pinched her needles together in one hand, took Barbara's money with the other. "So how are you liking our city?"
"I'm sure I'd like it," Barbara said, feeling that she'd somehow been unreasonable, "if I had less on my mind."
"You poor thing." As the woman passed her the change she squeezed Barbara's hand. "Maybe there's someone better than the Spiritualists to help you." ------------------------------------190
Barbara managed to look interested and grateful. "Who's that?"
"Someone who buys these magazines you read told me about it. She's only been once but she says it changed her. They meet down on Broomielaw, under the bridges. I think she said Thursday nights."
That was tonight. Perhaps it was a lead, perhaps there might be people in the group who could help Barbara, people who might know of other, more secretive groups. "Is that all you know? What do they call themselves?"
"That's all she said, but I'm telling you she was a different woman. I thought you might be interested, that's all." She recommenced knitting, with an air of having done all she could. "I don't know what they're called."
"Thanks anyway. Really, you've been very kind." Barbara made herself smile before she turned away. The woman called after her, and then Barbara was hurrying to find Ted, to tell him they must go to the meeting tonight. Her eagerness felt close to panic, for the woman had called after her, "Maybe they haven't got a name." ------------------------------------191
191
Twenty-three
Broomielaw was a four-lane two-way road that ran by the Clyde. When they arrived it was growing dusk; traces of light flickered like dying neon in the river. It had taken them twenty minutes to walk from the hotel, and Ted had insisted they eat first. "Of course we must go," he'd said, "but we may need the energy."
Like most dock roads at night, Broomielaw was almost deserted. Neon names of whiskies towered above the pavements; presumably there were drinkers in the bars underneath the signs. A few men drank from bottles on benches by the river, but they weren't watching her. However watched she felt, why would anyone have followed her from the hotel?
She saw the bridges at once, a railway flanked by roads which spanned both the river and Broomielaw. Bene
ath the bridges, on the wall furthest from the river, two orange ------------------------------------192
lights were glaring, so stark they were almost white. Between the lights the roadway was bare and so, apart from carpets of shadow behind the pillars, was the pavement. There was nobody at all.
Perhaps the woman in the kiosk had mistaken the day, or perhaps they were simply too late; they hadn't known what time to arrive. Reflections of lampposts fished in the river, patches of pollution oozed by; on the water naves of arches dripped loudly. Her elongated shadow dangled its head in the water. She mustn't blame Ted for having delayed her, yet she did.
But it was Ted who saw the door. It stood ajar in the wall between the orange floodlights. Because it was covered with posters she had assumed that it was peeling away from the wall. She hurried across, screwing up her eyes against the dazzle.
Just within the doorway stood a two-faced board which said undying light in large bold letters. Presumably it had stood outside on the pavement to advertise the meeting. Whoever the Undying Light were, she reminded herself, they might be able to help. When Ted managed to shift the door, which reluctantly gave a foot or so before becoming wedged, they went in.
The passage was dim, with dog-eared wallpaper, and all the dimmer for the brightness of the room beyond. Someone in the room was talking fast and lively as a salesman. When Barbara reached the end of the passage she thought for a dislocated moment that she'd found a pop group by mistake: four scrubbed figures in white robes were chanting on a podium, expertly picking up one another's cues, for an audience seated on wooden folding chairs. But a small man in his sixties, wearing a robe too big for him, came whispering to her and Ted at once and tried to hustle them into the nearest available seats. He was enough to indicate that this was meant to be a religious meeting. ------------------------------------193
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