by India Grey
‘Yes. What are the early symptoms?’
From the other end of the line he heard Randall expel a long, heavy breath. ‘I don’t know, Kit. Every case is different, but muscle weakness in the hands or feet, I guess—probably more noticeably in the hands—clumsiness, lack of co-ordination, that kind of thing. Why?’
Kit ignored the question, his mind spooling back to those long moments beneath the bridge when his fingers had fumbled helplessly with the wire cutters.
‘What treatments are there?’
‘There’s no cure, if that’s what you mean,’ Randall said reluctantly. ‘Progress of the disease can be slowed slightly with drugs. It’s not pretty.’
‘No. I know that.’
‘But those symptoms are common to a huge number of illnesses that are a lot less serious and a lot more common,’ Randall continued, adopting a self-consciously cheerful tone. ‘MND really would be a worst case scenario, and a pretty unlikely one at that.’
Unless there was a genetic predisposition, thought Kit hollowly.
‘Kit? Are you still there? Look, why don’t you come in and see me when you get back? It would give Lewis a boost to have a visit from his commanding officer and I could give you a quick once-over if there’s anything that you’re worried about.’
‘No. There’s no need. Really.’
Wing Commander Mike Randall had been an army medic for long enough to know that soldiers responded to questions from a doctor in the same way they would to enemy torture—with stony refusal to co-operate. A more subtle approach was often needed. ‘How about a game of squash? It’s a while since we’ve played, although that could be because you always win. Fancy thrashing me again?’
Kit understood exactly what Randall was doing, and in
some distant, dispassionate quarter of his brain he appreciated it.
‘I’d love to, but …’ he lifted the hand that wasn’t holding the phone and held it out in front of him, stretching out his fingers as far as he could until the ache in his tendons just about dispelled the tingling numbness ‘… some things have come up. Family business. I’m going to be in Northumberland for the next few weeks.’
‘OK, Kit. I get the picture.’ Randall gave a rueful sigh. ‘But I’m here if you need me. If there’s anything else you want to ask.’
‘Thanks, but you’ve answered everything already,’ Kit said neutrally. ‘Lewis needs you, not me. Give him my regards.’
Ending the call, he turned away from the city spread out beneath him and tossed his phone down on the low table. A band of pain across his shoulders told him he’d spent the duration of that entire conversation with every muscle in his body tensed, ready to fight.
Even though there was no point. The enemy he faced couldn’t be beaten.
With a thud of alarm he realised that Sophie must be out of the shower by now, and wondered if she’d heard any of that. Quickly he crossed the sun-baked terrace and went inside.
It was cool and dim. And quiet. In the bedroom a note lay on the chest of drawers.
Gone to medina to buy postcard for Jasper. See you
later. Love S x
Relief that she hadn’t heard poured through him. He could carry on as normal, pretend that everything was all right. If he didn’t go and see Randall, or get any kind of formal diagnosis, that meant he wasn’t lying to her.
But there was a whole lot of difference between not lying
to her and knowingly trapping her into a marriage that would make her a prisoner.
The ring Juliet had given him was still in the pocket of his trousers and he took it out now, flipping open the lid of the velvet box. The stone was called a black opal, although against the midnight satin lining of the box it glowed with a kaleidoscope of shifting colours, lit up by the diamonds that encircled it.
He stared at it for a long time. Then, shutting the box with a snap, he put it back in his pocket and went out to find her.
The car from the hotel dropped him by the square. Heading towards the medina in the blast-furnace heat, he took the mobile phone from his pocket and brought up Sophie’s number. He kept his head down, pressing the phone against his ear and concentrating on its steady ring instead of the cacophony of street vendors and musicians and a thousand conversations around him.
Come on, Sophie, pick up …
The narrow streets of the medina were dark and cool. It was a relief to be out of the sun, but the shadows crawled with menace. He could feel the sheen of sweat covering every inch of his skin, making his shirt stick to him. He quickened his pace so that he was almost running, pushing through the ambling crowds of people as his gaze darted around, looking for a red head amongst the dark or covered ones.
Why wasn’t she answering her phone?
His heartbeat reverberated through his body as he scanned the street, his training kicking in automatically as he checked for suspicious signs. There were scores of them—bags of rubbish left in doorways, people wearing layers of clothing that could conceal explosives, carrying bags and packages of every shape and size and muttering to themselves as they walked. Just like in any busy city street the world over, mocked a voice of scornful rationality inside Kit’s head.
Ahead of him he could see the arched gateway of the souk, leading out onto the wide street beyond. And in front of it, her hair gleaming in a narrow shaft of sunlight filtering through the blinds above, he saw Sophie.
She was sitting on a low stool facing a heavily veiled woman who held one of her hands. The air left Kit’s lungs in a rush of relief. Resisting the urge to break into a run and haul her into his arms, he slowed right down, taking a deep breath in and expelling it again in an effort to steady his racing pulse. She was having a henna tattoo—that was why she couldn’t answer her phone. Not because she’d been kidnapped, or dragged into a back alley by a gang of thugs, for pity’s sake. His scalp prickled with sweat as he raked a hand through his hair and started towards her again.
And stopped.
In a doorway opposite a man was holding a mobile phone. As if in slow motion Kit watched him begin to press buttons on the keypad.
Adrenaline, like neat, iced alcohol, sluiced through his veins, sending his heart-rate into overdrive. Instantly his whole body was rigid, primed, as he reached for his gun. Instead he found himself clutching his phone again, but his fingers were shaking so badly that he dropped it.
As if in slow motion he watched it fall to the ground. He knew he had to reach Sophie before the blast but was suddenly paralysed, his feet rooted to the spot where he stood as horror solidified like concrete in his chest and dark spots danced before his eyes. His mouth was open to shout her name but his throat was tight and dry and could produce no sound.
But it was as if she heard him anyway because at that moment she lifted her head and looked round, straight towards where he stood. The smile died on her face and she got to her feet, coming towards him with her arms outstretched.
‘Kit! Kit—what is it?’
The compassion in her voice hit him like acid in the face, bringing him back to reality and turning his panic into self-disgust in a lurching heartbeat. Reaching him, she raised her hand to his cheek, stroking her thumb gently over the half-healed scars there.
‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’
Behind her the man was speaking into his mobile phone now, his face impassive. Kit jerked his head away from Sophie’s touch as if it burned him.
‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,’ he said in a voice that was as cold and hard as steel. ‘I came to find you because I’ve arranged the flight for one o’clock. We need to pack and get to the airport—if you still want to come back with me.’
Sophie dropped her hand, its intricate henna markings still glistening wetly, and took a step backwards. Dropping her gaze, she nodded.
‘Yes. Of course I do.’
Knives of self-loathing pierced him, but still pride prevented him from taking her hand. From apologising, or explaining. Instead he turned on his heel and
began to walk back along the street, keeping his gaze fixed unwaveringly ahead.
CHAPTER NINE
THE flight back to England was every bit as luxurious as the one they had taken two days previously, but considerably less enjoyable.
Neither of them spoke much. Kit seemed to have placed himself behind a wall of glass, so that even though he was only a few feet away from her, Sophie felt as if he were somewhere far beyond her reach. Sitting in the deep embrace of the huge seat, she stared out of the window, longing to cross the small distance between them and tear the paperwork out of his hand and force him to notice her, to talk to her …
To tell her exactly what had been going through his mind when she’d seen him in the souk earlier, and what had made him look like a man who was being crucified by his own conscience?
But she had a sickening fear that if she did there would be no going back, because the things he told her would change everything. How could she wilfully bring about her own expulsion from the paradise she had allowed herself to believe was hers for ever?
It was early evening when they reached Alnburgh. Even in the height of an English summer, the contrast with the heat and the rich colours of Morocco couldn’t have been starker. Carved from iron-grey stone, it appeared to rise straight up out of the cliffs above a stretch of windswept beach, and for
miles it had loomed on the horizon, managing to look far more menacing than the Disneyesque castle in the Romanian pine forest where the vampire movie had been filmed.
Sophie’s spirits sank even further.
She remembered the first time she’d seen it. It had been a winter night, in the middle of a blizzard, and with its floodlights switched on Alnburgh Castle had looked just like a child’s snowglobe. She’d been enchanted, but that was before she’d realised it was just as cold inside as it was outside.
‘I can see why Tatiana couldn’t wait to move to London the moment Ralph’s funeral was over,’ she said with a shiver. ‘It’s not exactly cosy, is it? Are any of the staff still there?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Kit. His voice was gravelly with misuse, and more sexy than ever. ‘Obviously Tatiana didn’t want to pay them to stay on if she wasn’t living there—not when she’s haemorrhaging cash to live in a suite at Claridges while she has the London house vandalised by her interior decorator.’
Sophie pressed the button to activate the car heater, and directed the jet of warm air onto her icy feet. She was still wearing the little gold flip-flops, which were covered in pink Marrakech dust. They were already driving under the clock tower, but she knew from previous experience that this might be the last opportunity she had to be warm for a long time.
‘It’s a big responsibility, isn’t it?’ she said faintly, wondering if now was the time to ask how quickly he could sort things out so they could get back to London.
‘Yes.’
Kit brought the car to a standstill and cut the engine. In the sudden quiet she could hear the muffled sound of the sea and the plaintive crying of gulls.
‘Sophie, I know this isn’t what you wanted, or expected …’
Ever since she’d followed him through the souk in Marrakech Sophie had been desperate for him to make some move to bridge the terrible chasm that seemed to have opened
up between them, but the note of weary resignation in his voice now made her insides freeze. They’d come all this way, he’d delivered her back to England, so was this the start of the ‘it’s never going to work’ speech? In the soft, pastel-coloured evening light he looked beautiful and exhausted and so remote it was as if he had already left her. She could feel the blood draining from her head, leaving a vacuum of airless panic.
‘I know, but to be fair you hardly expected it either,’ she said, reaching for the door handle, prising it open with shaky fingers. ‘Gosh, look how long the grass is. Don’t you feel a bit like Robin Hood returning from the crusades?’
She stumbled out of the car, grabbing the carrier bag of duty-free stuff she’d bought while he’d been sorting out the hire car—two bottles of champagne, some uber-fashionable vodka in a neon-pink bottle and a giant Toblerone for Jasper. Taking in a deep lungful of salty air, she wrapped her arms around her as the sea breeze sliced straight through the flimsy white dress. The denim jacket she’d put on over it was completely inadequate for keeping out the chill of the Northumberland evening. Or that of Kit’s distance.
Behind her she heard Kit’s door slam.
‘Do you have keys?’ she asked, turning to follow him up the steps to the giant-sized front door.
‘Don’t need them.’ He tapped some numbers into a discreet keypad. ‘Tatiana made my f—Ralph—have an electronic system installed.’ The door creaked heavily open. ‘After you.’
Sophie remembered the armoury hall very well from her first visit. By Alnburgh standards it was a small room, but every inch of the high stone walls was covered with hundreds of swords, pistols, shields and sinister-looking daggers hung in intricate patterns. She’d been deeply intimidated by it the first time, and, standing in the middle of the stone floor and looking around, she didn’t feel much better now.
‘Home sweet home,’ she said with an attempt at humour.
‘The first thing I think we should do is take all these awful guns and things down and put up some coat hooks and a nice mirror. Much more welcoming, and practical.’
Gathering up the thick drift of envelopes from the floor, Kit didn’t smile. Sophie decided she’d better shut up. Jokes like that, coming from the girl who grew up on a converted bus, were clearly too close to the bone to be funny.
‘Just going to the loo,’ she muttered, walking into the long gallery where the heads of various kinds of deer and antelope slaughtered by past Fitzroys glared down through the half-light. Until she’d come here, if someone had said ‘stuffed animal’ to her it would have conjured up an image of cuddly teddy bears, she thought miserably. The scent of woodsmoke hung in the air, a whispered memory of past warmth that couldn’t quite mask the unmistakable smell of damp.
In the portrait hall, from which the wide staircase curved upwards, Sophie came face to face with Jasper’s mother. Or the seven-foot-high painted version of her anyway, which was every bit as intimidating and glamorous as the real thing. She paused in front of it, looking up. The painter, whoever he was, had captured Tatiana’s fine-boned, Slavic beauty, and the quietly triumphant expression in the blue eyes that seemed, quite literally, to look down on Sophie. The diamonds that glittered at her throat, ears and wrist sent out sharp points of painted white, which really did seem to light up the fading evening light.
Sophie sighed. She was completely unable to imagine herself in a similar portrait, decked out in satin and dripping with diamonds. Moving away quickly, she went up the stairs. When she’d first arrived at Alnburgh the labyrinthine passageways upstairs had completely confused her, but at least now she knew where to find a bathroom. Unlike the staterooms downstairs, upstairs had escaped the attentions of Tatiana’s interior designer and the chilly corridors were suffused with the breath of age and neglect. The bathroom Sophie went into
had last been updated in the nineteen thirties and featured an enormous cast-iron bath standing on lion’s feet and pea-green rectangular tiles laid like brickwork. It was refrigerator-cold.
There was no loo paper, but luckily Sophie found the tattered remains of her paper napkin from the aeroplane in her pocket and sent silent thanks to Nick McAllister. She had just pulled the clanking chain and was about to go out again when something on the floor by the door caught her eye and stopped her in her tracks.
Her scream bounced off the tiled walls and echoed along the winding passageways.
Downstairs, Kit froze.
Instinct took over. In a split second he was sprinting up the stairs, taking them two at a time, adrenaline sluicing through his veins like acid. In that instant he was back on duty, his mind racing ahead, anticipating broken bodies, blood, fear and calculating what resources he
had to deal with them. Tearing along the corridor, he saw the bathroom door was ajar and kicked it open.
‘Sophie …’
There was no blood. Heart pounding, that was what he registered first. And when he’d processed that fact he noticed that she was standing squeezed into the narrow space between the bath and the toilet, her clenched fists clasped beneath her chin, her whole body hunched up in an attitude of utter terror.
‘Don’t move!’ she croaked.
He stopped dead. Reality swung dizzily away from him for a second and he was back in the desert. Images of mines half covered with earth flashed through his head.
Slowly, her eyes round with terror, Sophie unfurled one arm and pointed to the floor just to one side of him.
‘There.’
He turned his head, looked down. Blinked.
‘A spider,’ he rasped. ‘It’s just a spider.’
‘Just a spider? It’s not just anything! It’s massive. Please, Kit,’ she sobbed, ‘I hate them. Please … get rid of it.’
In one swift movement he swooped down to capture it, but his stiff fingers refused to co-operate and it darted away. Sophie screamed again, shrinking back against the wall as it shot towards her.
This time he got it. Somehow he closed his tingling fingers around it, and then, throwing open the badly fitting window, let it go.
‘Is it gone?’
He showed her his empty hand. Residual adrenaline still coursed through him, making it impossible to speak, even if he’d trusted himself. His breathing was fast and ragged. He turned away, pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to hold back his anger.
‘Thank you,’ Sophie said shakily from behind him. ‘I can’t bear them. We used to get really huge ones—like that—on the bus and Rainbow always insisted they had as much right as we did to be there and wouldn’t touch them. I used to lie in bed … t-terrified and imagining them crawling under my bedclothes—’
Her voice broke into a hiccupping sob and she put a hand, with its incongruous henna tattoo, to her mouth to stifle it.