Startled by how close the sound was, Sophie looked round and saw a black shape very close to her, coming at a speed that made her nerves jump. She began to run, but not fast enough; the wing of the car hit her a glancing blow and sent her flying through the air like a rag doll. She landed heavily on one side and lay, half-conscious, where she had fallen, just in front of the iron gates.
She didn’t hear the car brakes scream as the driver hit them. The car zigzagged all over the tarmac, tyres spinning noisily, turned in a wide circle and slowed while the driver stared as Sophie stirred and started to struggle to her knees. Then the car engine revved, the car shot forward, driving very fast towards her. Sophie lifted her head to stare at it, her heart thudding in panic. All she could see was the black glass of the windscreen and a shape behind it in the driving seat, but she could not see a face and that scared her more than anything else.
A second later a beam of yellow headlights lit her crouching figure and she instinctively looked round towards the iron gates as they began to open electronically with a smooth humming sound for a long silvery sports car which was coming fast from the house.
It dawned on Sophie abruptly that it was coming straight for her too; that if the black car didn’t hit her, the sports car would. She staggered to her feet, looking desperately around. Could she make it to the village green before either of them reached her?
As she turned to run she heard the silver car brake sharply, as if the driver had suddenly caught sight of her.
At that instant the driver of the black car must have seen the other vehicle too. Swerving out of its path towards her, the black car flashed on past, and, as it changed trajectory, went out of control. Tyres screaming, it spun across the road, hit the slight rise at the edge of the village green, turned turtle and was carried on, upside-down, at a tremendous speed over the grass.
Stunned, Sophie stood and watched, scarcely aware of breathing, as the car hit a huge oak tree near the pond. The noise was indescribable; a nightmare sound of splintering glass, imploding metal, crashing branches from the tree, ending in an explosion that deafened her, before a great wall of fire went up and engulfed the oak tree, the car and the human being that had been driving it.
Sophie had not even noticed the other car pulling up a few feet away, or realized that the other driver had got out and stood there watching, too, as appalled as herself.
Shaking and crying, Sophie began to run towards the burning car, not knowing what she was doing, not thinking, only feeling that somebody ought to do something.
‘No! You can’t do anything for them now!’ The voice beside her made her start violently and look round, eyes dilated and full of the horror of what she had just watched.
By the orange blaze of the fire Sophie saw her, a dark-haired woman a little older than herself, in ash-grey trousers, a sweater in a paler shade of grey and a short jersey wool jacket in a warm russet shade.
When Sophie just stared, she went on, ‘Are you OK? What on earth was going on? It looked to me as if that car was driving straight at you.’
Sophie’s heart was beating so hard she felt sick. Even in that awful light she knew that face, those eyes. She had brought with her all the enlarged photos Steve had had made of the photocopied portraits of her family, to show her sister, but she did not need to consult them to recognize the likeness. She was looking at a younger version of her mother.
‘Anya,’ she said, smiling shakily, tears rising to her eyes.
Cathy Brougham let go of her and stepped back, startled, face pale. ‘You? It was you who rang me this morning, wasn’t it? Who are you? And who on earth is Anya?’
Sophie only heard the first few words. Shock and weariness finally engulfed her. She slumped forward in a dead faint, and Cathy caught her in her arms.
8
People came running from across the green, from up and down the village high street, shouting, their voices carrying over the roar of the burning car. Some of them tried to get closer, one man dodged in to see if whoever was inside the car could be helped, but the searing heat drove them all back.
‘I rang the police and fire brigade.’ The landlady of the Green Man was out of breath, her chest heaving after running across the village green. ‘They should be here soon.’
‘Can you help me? I’m going to put her in my car. She can’t just lie here in the road.’ Cathy Brougham was holding Sophie’s dead weight under the arms, supporting her with her own body.
‘Sure. I’ll take her feet. Here we go.’
‘Is she OK? That car didn’t knock her down, did it?’
‘I don’t know what happened. She doesn’t seem to be injured.’
‘There’s blood on her face,’ said the landlady, peering closer, then she turned and stared at the burning car. ‘I heard the crash – thought it was the end of the world. Terrible noise, wasn’t it? I dropped the pint of beer I was pulling, all over the counter it went, glass and beer everywhere. I didn’t have to go to the window to see what had happened; it lit up the windows. Lit up the sky, too, I dare say, for miles.’
‘Like the Blitz,’ an old man said, standing beside them, staring at the blaze like a little boy on Bonfire Night, his rheumy eyes glistening in the light. ‘Reminds me of fire-watching. Terrible heat, fire has. Look at the glass melting. Won’t be much left of them inside.’
‘That’s enough, Albert! You’ll make us all ill.’ The landlady slid a look at Cathy Brougham’s appalled expression.
Sophie lay with firelight shining on her lids and didn’t dare to open her eyes. Her teeth were chattering, she was trembling violently and was icy cold. Why was she so cold? Where was she? What had happened? She heard the voices as if from far away, foreign, bewildering. What were they talking about?
Across the green she heard the rush and roar of the flames, branches crashing from the tree which was now on fire, too, and her memory came back. The black car driving straight at her . . . the crash . . . the explosion. Oh, God, that noise!
‘Your friend’s shaking like a leaf. She’s staying in my front bedroom, by the way,’ the landlady told Cathy. ‘She didn’t cause the accident, did she? She just walked out of the pub a few minutes ago, coming over here to see you, she said.’
‘I think the car must have hit her, but she got up. She didn’t seem seriously injured.’ Cathy bent to look at Sophie. ‘You’re right, she’s shaking badly, she must be in shock. Did you ring the doctor?’
‘The police said they would be sending an ambulance.’ The landlady turned to stare as a small police car drove up with siren wailing. ‘What’s he making that racket for? Give a man a horn and he’ll blow it.’
Without answering, Cathy moved to meet the policeman. Sophie heard her voice talking quietly, heard a man’s voice asking questions, then Cathy came back. ‘He says it’s OK for me to go back to my house and take this lady with me. There’s an ambulance on the way, and he rang Dr Waring, but the doctor was out on a call. He’ll be along later and can look at her then. She’ll be better off lying down somewhere warm.’
Sophie could feel tears trickling down her face. She was dizzy and disorientated. Her mind kept drifting off into confused visions: cars screamed towards her, headlights blinding, tyres spun on the road, the car slewed round and rushed towards the oak tree, she heard the crash again, endlessly echoing, the explosion with which the petrol tanks blew, saw the fireball go up into the bare black branches of the oak, orange flames climbing into the night sky.
Cathy Brougham got behind the wheel and closed her door, starting the engine. The silver car moved off through the open iron gates, drove back along the drive, over gravel, under trees which sent a strange flickering over Sophie’s face, the shadows of the leaves reflected in the headlights. Her eyes opened and stared up, hypnotized.
They approached a house; she saw the black bulk of it, a front door opened and sent yellow light towards them, the car stopped outside and there were raised, startled voices.
Somebody opened the
door of the car beside her and she was helped out, supported by two people, one on each side, while she staggered towards the square of light which was a door.
‘In here . . .’
The light dazzled her. She swayed, and was held, was half-carried into a room and laid down on a couch. She stayed still, her eyes shut again, heard footsteps clicking on wood floors, a door somewhere near by open and close quietly.
‘How do you feel?’
The voice came from right beside her and she started, opening her eyes to find herself lying flat, with a warm woollen tartan rug over her. Above her a face glowed in the firelight, soft-skinned, with wide eyes and curling dark hair.
Mamma! she wanted to say. The name came instantly to her lips but was not spoken because even as she thought it she knew that this was not her mother, this was Anya, and she remembered everything. It all came back with a rush and made her dizzy again. She couldn’t believe that at last she was seeing her sister, that it was all true, Anya was alive and so strikingly like their mother that Sophie couldn’t stop staring at her. If she had had any doubts at all about their mother’s story, they had all dissolved. There was no shred of doubt anywhere. This was her sister, this was Anya, and she was no longer an outsider in her mother’s new family, she was no longer alone, she had Anya now, even if Anya did not yet know it.
Anya might reject her. She could see that Anya was disturbed by her, thought her crazy, perhaps? And rationally, Sophie couldn’t blame her.
‘I’d offer you some brandy, but I’m not sure if I should give you alcohol, there’s some water here, if you want it. That can’t hurt you,’ said the strangely American voice which should have been like her own, or like their mother’s.
‘Please,’ she whispered, and watched her sister pick up a glass of water which looked so clear and cool her mouth thirsted for it as if she had been lost in a desert and had not drunk for days.
Cathy slid a hand under her neck and lifted her head, held the glass to her mouth; Sophie swallowed and the water flowed down her throat. Cathy lowered her again and sat down on the carpet beside the couch, her knees, in their sleek grey jersey wool trousers, bent up and her arms curled around them, hands clasped, her chin on top of them, staring at Sophie.
‘When you fainted I wasn’t sure what to do, so I brought you here, to my home. You didn’t seem to have any serious injuries, and the nearest hospital is a very long drive away. I’ve sent for our doctor. He’ll be able to tell us if you need hospital treatment.’
‘I don’t think I’m badly hurt,’ Sophie said, sitting up warily to test that.
Cathy at once said sharply, ‘Be careful! You ought to lie down until the doctor has seen you.’
‘I’m not in any pain.’ Sophie felt her arms and legs gingerly. ‘No, no bones broken. A few bruises where the car hit me, or where I fell, but I expect I’m more shocked than hurt.’
‘All the same you shouldn’t move. Shock can be pretty devastating.’
‘Yes.’ Sophie lay down again and looked around the room, curious about her sister’s home. Large, furnished with what she recognized as antiques, yet comfortable, a family room with a very lived-in sense. The couch was arranged in front of a huge stone fireplace which was big enough for several people to stand inside. There was a black iron basket in the centre of it, holding the great log fire which gave the room so much heat and light, scenting the air with pine, crackling as resin ran from the wood and exploded in the heat with sparks flying up the great, blackened chimney.
Sophie shivered suddenly, staring into the heart of the fire and remembering.
‘Don’t think about it!’ Cathy Brougham said sharply, tuning into her thoughts. ‘Try not to think at all.’
Sophie laughed shakily. Above it a gold clock in a glass case chimed the hour; Sophie counted the chimes and couldn’t believe that it was already five o’clock. It had been morning when she left the hotel; the journey here had taken longer than she had ever guessed it might. She hoped Steve had got her message or he would be worried, finding her missing. Would the hotel remember to give it to him?
‘Would you like some coffee or tea?’ suggested Cathy.
‘Coffee would be good,’ Sophie whispered.
Cathy went to a table to pick up a telephone, pressed a button. ‘Could we have a pot of coffee and some biscuits?’ she asked whoever answered. ‘Thank you. No, nothing else.’
A wood-block floor gleamed in the firelight, reflecting the silver photograph frames displayed on tables, the faces in them all unknown to her except those which showed Anya, reflecting two glass vases of winter flowers, white and gold chrysanthemums, a row of dark family portraits hung on the panelled walls. Were those the ancestors of Anya’s husband, Paul Brougham? Here and there the floor was laid with rugs, dark red and black, their patterns ritualized, the wavy lines representing water, the triangles trees; that much she knew from once attending a sale of rugs in London a year or so ago.
Sitting on the floor, Cathy Brougham watched Sophie, wondering what she was thinking. Who on earth was she? She was beautiful, her blonde hair silky, her skin smooth, even if it had a worrying pallor. Had the car crash put that haunted, almost hunted look in her blue eyes? Had the black car been trying to hit her? What was she doing here? Why had she rung up earlier, and asked if she was Anya – why did she keep calling her Anya? Who was Anya?
Cathy remembered the crash again, the explosion, the flames. Her heart raced with shock and disbelief.
‘That car tried to run you down, didn’t it?’ she broke out and Sophie started, and looked at her, unable to hide the fear she felt.
‘You saw?’
‘I saw the car driving straight at you. In my headlights. I saw clearly what was happening. Before the car went into a spin and crashed.’
‘Did you see who was driving?’
‘There wasn’t time and it was too dark, anyway. But there was just one person in the car, and I had a feeling it was a woman.’
Sophie’s chest squeezed agonizingly. ‘Yes, I thought it was too.’ Her voice sounded like dead leaves blowing down a gutter, whispering, faint.
Cathy stared fixedly at her. ‘You know why she was trying to kill you, don’t you? Why? Who was she? Come to that, who are you? What’s this all about? And who is Anya?’
Sophie looked around wildly. ‘My bag. Where’s my bag? I had it with me when that car hit me, I know I did . . .’
Her voice soothing, Cathy quickly said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s here, I saw it on the road and picked it up.’ Getting to her feet she went to a table nearby and picked up the large black shoulder bag which she had found on the road beside her car. ‘Here it is, you see?’
‘Oh, thank you.’ In her relief Sophie almost sobbed as she took it. Her hands shook as she unzipped it and pulled out the little sheaf of photographs she had brought with her to show her sister. Hunting through them, she found the photo of their mother in her wedding-dress and held it out. ‘Do you recognize this?’
Frowning, startled, Cathy Brougham took it. ‘What a strange picture! It looks like a photo of a ghost.’ She shivered as if a ghost had in fact walked over her grave.
‘It’s a photocopy of a photograph; the photo was blown up to make it clearer.’
It was far from clear, thought Cathy. ‘But what is it?’ She found the strange black and white composition disturbing; she couldn’t stop staring, though, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Slowly she turned her head and stared into a gilt-framed Venetian eighteenth-century mirror hanging on the wall across the room. She walked over there to look closer, held the photograph up beside her own reflection, and couldn’t breathe properly. It could have been a picture of her, now; yet it was clearly an old photograph, more a negative in ghostly black and white, the clothes old-fashioned, a peasant look to them that made them foreign, and yet that face was so familiar, she had seen it in her mirror a million times.
‘What is this?’ she whispered. ‘Who is it?’
Sophie w
as breathless with excitement and relief because she could see that her sister had seen the resemblance, was shaken by it. ‘You do recognize it, don’t you?’
Cathy swallowed. ‘No!’ she lied. It was some trick, it had to be. Had someone taken a picture of her and stuck it on the body of someone else? Angrily she broke out, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Sophie, Sophie Narodni.’
‘Narodni?’ The way she repeated it told Sophie that the name meant nothing to her. ‘That’s East European, isn’t it? – where do you come from?’
‘I am Czech,’ Sophie said in her own language, hoping for some reaction, but Cathy looked blank, so she repeated it in English. ‘I am Czech.’
‘Oh. Czech.’ Cathy frowned. ‘What are you doing in England?’
‘I am here to see you, Anya.’
A flush of anger ran up Cathy’s face. ‘Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Cathy, Cathy Brougham. I was Cathy Gowrie, but I have never been called Anya.’ But she looked again at the photocopied face of their mother, bewilderment in her eyes. ‘Who is this, anyway? It isn’t me, although it looks like me. Who is it?’
‘Our mother.’
Cathy Brougham felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. She gave a shaken gasp. ‘What? What are you talking about?’ She almost ran over to a table and picked up a photograph in an ornate silver art nouveau frame, held it out to Sophie. ‘This is me, with my mother. She doesn’t look anything like this!’ and she held out the photocopied photo too so that the faces were side by side.
Sophie took it eagerly and looked at the dark-haired little girl in a cream straw bonnet and embroidered frock, unsmilingly leaning against a thin, pale woman who had a tight, possessive arm around her shoulders. So that was Mrs Gowrie? She looked neurotic, or was she simply ill?
It must have been taken shortly after they left for America; the child was the same age as the photo of Anya she had brought with her. Sophie hunted among her pile of photographs, found it and held it out.
Walking in Darkness Page 21