Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  As he reached the traffic lights at the cinema he had to wait again to cross the road, and Marian caught up. In the distance was the sound of a police siren, and as it got louder and louder until it screamed past, she was slowly shaken back to a sense of reality. She had already guessed that he intended them to go into Parson’s, so she decided that once he was inside the door she would make a run for it – round the corner, into Callow Street and home. Stealthily she peered up into his face. He was looking up at the rooftops, his face expressionless. She looked away again and across the road to the bright lights of the cinema where people were beginning to file out. She was quite safe now.

  ‘Your name’s Marian Deacon. You live in Callow Street with your boss Stephanie Ryder,’ he muttered. ‘She’s not there tonight.’

  Her head spun round, but he was still nonchalantly gazing into space, and she wondered if she had been hearing things. Then it hit her. He had just let her know that he knew where she lived. If she ran away, he would follow.

  A minute later he was holding the door open for her to go into Parson’s.

  They were shown to a table for two at the back of the crowded restaurant, and the man ordered two coffees and two bowls of chilli.

  ‘I’ve already eaten,’ Marian told him.

  He smiled. ‘Sure, but we can’t just have coffee. The name’s Art Douglas, by the way.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He licked his lips, then pulled a strangely thoughtful face. ‘Are you still afraid?’ he asked.

  ‘Not with all these people around,’ she lied.

  ‘Sure, that’s cool.’

  ‘You – you mentioned Olivia,’ she stammered, after a lengthy pause.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you mean Olivia Hastings, the girl we’re making a film about?’ she asked stupidly.

  ‘That’s the girl.’

  ‘Well, what about her?’ she said, when he didn’t go on.

  He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. ‘I thought a long time about you after Jodi told me,’ he said.

  ‘You mean, you’re the man she . . .’

  ‘Sure. I’m the man who really knows what went on back then, before Olivia went away. That’s what you . . .’

  ‘But I told Jodi I didn’t want to know,’ Marian interrupted. ‘We’ve been instructed by Olivia’s father not to . . .’

  ‘I know what Frank’s told you,’ he said. ‘But he’s wrong. It’s gotta come out, sooner or later.’ He sat back as two bowls of chilli were placed on the table, but neither of them made any attempt to eat.

  ‘Who are you?’ Marian asked, as he delved in his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘I mean, who are you really?’

  He laughed. ‘Me, I’m the guy you guessed at, Marian. I’m the guy the editor told. I was a journalist working for that paper way back then. When they killed Eddie I got out. Fast. But five years have gone by and Olivia ain’t come home – and I don’t reckon she’s ever coming home.’

  ‘You think she’s dead?’

  At first he didn’t answer, and Marian watched as he lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. None of this is real, she was telling herself, it’s just some kind of elaborate joke and any minute now he’ll let me in on it. She tried to imagine telling someone about him, but knew they would never believe her. Why should they, she didn’t believe it herself.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said finally. ‘All I know is, she can’t come back. Not after what she did. And now I feel the way Jodi feels – people have got to know. They have a right to know what scum there is in their city, and how high up that scum goes. And the only way we can tell ’em is through your movie.’

  ‘But I’ve already told you, we can’t do anything. Frank Hastings has said . . .’ She broke off as he waved his arm dismissively.

  ‘You gotta persuade Frank. You gotta tell him, you know, make him understand that the only way to get his daughter back is to blow the scam and get shot of those bastards.’

  ‘What bastards?’ She couldn’t believe she was going along with this. She sounded as if she was playing a part in a cheap Western. And if everyone around her had suddenly picked up a gun and started a shoot-out, she doubted she’d have blinked an eyelid.

  ‘The bastards that are scumming up our city,’ he answered. ‘The bastards that corrupted a young kid like Olivia and made her do what she did. You know about the drugs, Frank told you. She was so hooked she’d have done anything to get ’em. Crack, coke, heroin, you name it, she took it. It’ll kill her.’ He thought about that for a moment, then added, ‘Maybe it already has. But she sure was alive the last time I saw her.’

  He took a long draw from the cigarette and Marian’s eyes widened as a thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Just a minute,’ she said, ‘are you the “A” of the note Mr Hastings received?’

  He shook his head, and exhaled through his nose. ‘Nah. Not me,’ and he smiled as her face fell. ‘Last time I saw Olivia she was in New York. People saw her alive after that, in Italy. Like the kid who drove her out to the Tuscan village that night. He was the last one to see her alive. Least, the last one we know of. But he’s innocent, he knows nothing. We none of us know anything about Italy. What I’m gonna tell you about is New York and that bastard Rubin Meyer.’

  ‘The man who owns the art gallery where Olivia . . .’

  ‘That’s the guy. He knows more than he’s telling, but Frank says no. Frank’s questioned the guy himself, he’s convinced he knows nothing about Italy, but I’m not. It was Meyer’s idea to send Olivia there to study under that guy at the Accademia.’

  ‘Sergio Rambaldi.’

  ‘That’s him. And she ain’t been seen since. But that’s not for me to sort out, that’s one for Frank. But I keep telling him the only way you’re gonna find out where she is is by exposing what went on in that apartment over Meyer’s gallery.’ He ground his cigarette into the ashtray, then leaning forward again he looked into her face, and his own was twisted and snarling. ‘Kids, Marian. Young kids. No more than twelve or thirteen years old, some of ’em. And who was there waiting for ’em when Olivia brought ’em in? The filth of our city, that’s who. It was a club, a club formed by Meyer. You know what they did? Gang rape is what it’s called, gang rape and murder. Black kids, white kids, yellow kids, boys and girls. If they lived, and the crime was reported, no one was ever found. If they died, well, all I can say is, lucky them, ’cos the ones who did live will never have normal lives now. And Olivia Hastings rounded ’em up and brought ’em in. Everyone knew who she was, all the kids loved her. They trusted her. And while she sat in a corner shooting heroin, grown men were shoving their cocks up little boys’ asses.’

  Marian winced and turned away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Marian, but it’s not a nice tale.’

  ‘But why?’ she asked. ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘’Cos Frank found out about the drugs and cut off her allowance. He got her money frozen in the bank so she couldn’t touch it. That’s why.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she murmured. ‘It’s so horrible.’

  ‘My editor was the guy who threatened to blow it. He was invited to join the club. He didn’t know what it was at first, but when he went along to Olivia’s apartment and got offered a ten-year-old girl, he got out fast. He went straight to Frank and that’s when the heat really started, and when Meyer told him about this friend of his in Italy. Frank got Olivia out, and then . . .’

  ‘But surely you could have reported all this to the police?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There were cops in the club, and we’re talking high-up here, Marian. I mean, real high-up. Any lesser cop try to get his teeth into that one and . . .’ He slid a finger across his throat.

  ‘But there must have been some way to stop it.’

  ‘There mighta been if Olivia hadn’t disappeared. Frank’s a real powerful man, he was already searching out the cancer, collecting evidence so’s he could report it hi
gh up somewhere, higher’n the scum can reach, and he would have done it, but then Olivia upped and disappeared and now he swears one of ’em has her and he’s afraid to do anything in case they kill her.’ He stopped, and Marian flinched as his face suddenly turned ugly. ‘She’s his daughter, he wants to protect her,’ he snarled, ‘I can’t blame him for that. But there are mothers out there grieving over kids who don’t even know what happened to ’em. There are kids out there who can’t even walk any more, can’t even talk. And kids who are still in danger. And you and your movie are the only ones who can help.’

  ‘But I don’t see how,’ Marian protested. ‘I mean, if they – this club – were to find out what we were doing, from what you’re saying all our lives would be in danger.’

  ‘If you can persuade Frank to do it, he’ll give you the protection.’

  ‘But if he thinks they’re holding Olivia, how on earth are we supposed to persuade him?’

  ‘Olivia’s in Italy. As God is my witness, she is in Italy. Those jerks back home don’t have her, though they’d sure like to.’

  ‘But how can you know that for sure?’

  ‘’Cos they’re looking for her too. Frank says they’re shamming but I don’t believe it. I’m telling you, alive or dead, Olivia Hastings is in Italy, but none of those bastards in New York knows where. With the possible exception of Meyer.’

  ‘If he does know, aren’t Frank’s fears justified?’

  ‘Sure. It’s a gamble. A gamble with his daughter’s life. But think about all those kids, Marian, then ask yourself: if she is still alive, does she deserve to be after what she’s done?’

  ‘That’s not a question I can ever answer,’ she declared passionately. ‘I have no right to say who deserves to live or die. No one has, except God.’

  ‘You’d change your mind if you met some of the kids, I’m telling you.’ He started to get up from the table. ‘Think about it, Marian, and when you’ve thought about it, talk to Frank. I’m flying back to the States in the morning. If you want to contact me, do it through Jodi. But you got what you need for your movie, you don’t need any more than that. Do it how you want, Marian, but for God’s sake, do it.’

  Marian watched him weave his way through the restaurant, stop at the cash desk, then walk out onto the Fulham Road. There was a stultifying block in her mind and she could not think beyond it.

  Eventually she got up and walked round the corner to Stephanie’s flat. She let herself in, still so numbed by what she’d been told, and the extraordinary way in which she’d been told it, that her actions seemed automatic, mindless, like a robot’s.

  You’ve got to think about this, she was telling herself as she padded about her tiny bedroom. You can’t pretend it hasn’t happened. You can’t keep telling yourself America is another world. It was here. Art Douglas came to find you.

  She drew the curtains together, then as she turned back into the room she muttered aloud, ‘Oh God, why did I go to see Jodi that day? Why didn’t I tell Bronwen I’d been? Why did I lie to Matthew? I’ll have to tell them now.’ She walked over to the bed and pulled back the covers. Then suddenly, as she sat down, it was as if something exploded in her brain. She swung round as the thought, with all its appalling implications, swept over her; then the sweat on her forehead turned to tiny beads of ice, her nerve-ends screamed against her skin, and her heart was shuddering in great bounding spasms. She couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t tell anyone. If she did, she would put their lives in danger. Which meant that, now she knew, her own life . . .

  She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were twin pools of terror, dwarfing her other features, and her skin was pallid. It couldn’t be true, things like this didn’t happen to people like her. It was a dream, a nightmare, and any minute now she would wake up and find herself at home with her mother in Devon. She blinked, trying to lift the curtain of sleep – but there was no curtain of sleep, no nightmare, this was reality. She jerked to her feet as though to escape the clamourings of her imagination, and at that instant a key grated in the lock of the front door.

  ‘Marian! Marian! Are you asleep?’

  Marian tore open her bedroom door and almost fell into the hall as her knees buckled with relief. ‘Oh, Stephanie!’ she gasped. ‘Thank God it’s you.’

  ‘Why, you weren’t expecting someone else, were you?’ she teased as she switched on the light and closed the door. Then, as she turned round and saw Marian’s face, she cried, ‘Marian, what is it? Are you all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I just . . . It was only . . . I thought someone was following me earlier, after I left Bronwen’s.’

  ‘They weren’t, were they?’ Stephanie asked, still concerned.

  Marian shook her head. ‘No, I just got a bit spooked, that’s all. But what are you doing here? I thought you were at Matthew’s.’

  Stephanie pulled a face, then dropping her bag on a table, she sighed, ‘I was. But we’ve had a row and I walked out.’

  ‘You walked out on Matthew?’ And it seemed to Marian that the world had suddenly started to spin. ‘What did you row about?’ she asked. When Stephanie only looked at her, she mumbled, ‘I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘I asked him to let me move in with him, properly, so that his wife would have to accept that we were together now, and he said no. So I walked out.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘No. We shouted at one another, I slapped his face and he accused me of being another Kathleen.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marian looked round the hall, not quite sure what to say next, and acutely aware that the shattered pieces of her nightmare were slowly re-forming into a vision she couldn’t bring herself to face.

  ‘He hasn’t called, I take it?’ Stephanie asked.

  Marian shook her head, then watched helplessly as Stephanie seemed to crumple.

  ‘I’m sorry, Marian,’ she said, fumbling in her pocket for a tissue. ‘You must think I’m an absolute idiot. I am, where he’s concerned, I can’t help it. Excuse me.’ And she stumbled into her bedroom.

  A few minutes later Marian knocked gingerly on the door, and when there was no answer she pushed it open and peeped in. Stephanie was sitting at the dressing table, her face buried in her hands.

  ‘Come in,’ she sniffed, lifting her face and looking at Marian’s reflection in the mirror. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’ she asked.

  Marian held up a bottle in one hand and a tin in the other. ‘At moments like this,’ she said, ‘Madeleine and I always used to break open the wine or make some cocoa.’

  ‘Oh, Marian,’ Stephanie sobbed, ‘what would I do without you?’

  ‘Make your own cocoa?’ Marian suggested. ‘No, it wasn’t very funny, was it?’ she said, when Stephanie closed her eyes and swallowed hard on a fresh rising of tears.

  ‘Marian,’ Stephanie whispered, as she started to leave the room. Marian turned back. ‘Are you broad-shouldered as well as kind?’

  Marian looked at her curiously.

  ‘I’d like to talk,’ Stephanie explained.

  ‘I’ll open the wine,’ Marian smiled.

  From the moment Concorde touched down in the blistering heat at Heathrow, Madeleine was whirled off her feet. Roy took a taxi into London while Anne, Deidre’s secretary, whisked Deidre and Madeleine off to a studio in Fulham. Phillipa Jolley was waiting to fit Madeleine for yet more new clothes, and while they were there Roy turned up with a peculiar little Frenchman who sniffed her, scratched her, and took samples of her sweat and her hair. Then four executives from the cosmetics company arrived with plans for a brand new, more exclusive range, and while Phillipa pinned, snipped and measured they started to probe Madeleine’s pores, pull at her cheeks and finger her neck, all the time discussing colours and shades, skin texture and age, day creams and eye lotions. This went on until Deidre looked over the dress Phillipa had just squeezed her into, and announced they were off to a party to celebrate the climax of t
he British Grand Prix.

  Although she was revelling in the attention, uppermost in Madeleine’s mind was Paul. There had been no time to call him since she’d arrived back, and she was longing to see him. But the party was important, Deidre told her, mainly because Dario had gone to a lot of trouble to organise the photographers. That didn’t seem like a particularly good reason to Madeleine, but she refrained from saying so as Deidre would only point out that people were working round the clock to ensure she attained the kind of fame she wanted.

  Sitting in the back of Deidre’s Daimler as they sped along the M1 towards Silverstone, Madeleine took out her compact and studied her reflection. Helen Daniels – the stylist who worked with Phillipa – had done a fab hair and make-up job, considering the time she’d had to do it in. She wasn’t too sure about the dress, though. It was a sort of sky-blue, with diamanté things all over it. Well, that bit of it was all right, it was the high neck she didn’t go too much on, and the straight cut that finished just above the knee – and not just because of the heat.

  Seeing her look, Deidre said: ‘It’s right for where you’re going. No flaunting the rude bits tonight – every other woman there will be doing that, and the last thing we want is for you to be one of the crowd, eh?’

  Madeleine couldn’t argue with that, so she passed the rest of the journey going through the proofs of the Fairplay session that Anne had brought along. They weren’t half-bad, and she could hardly wait for Shamir and Paul to see them. It had been a good gimmick, that, to shave off all her pubic hair, though it was driving her mad now that it was growing back.

  The Grand Prix party, hosted jointly by Marlboro and McLaren, was being held in a giant marquee at the edge of the track. Seconds after Anne pulled the car to a halt, Roy came out of the marquee with the British racing team, followed by an army of photographers. Deidre stood to one side, watching Madeleine and marvelling at the way nothing seemed to faze her. She laughed and joked with the press, and sympathised with their disappointment that she was revealing no cleavage. She was as familiar with them as if she’d known them all her life – it was no wonder, Deidre reflected, that she was so popular with them.