He looked doubtful, yet eager to go, knowing nothing would go right at the party unless he was there to supervise. ‘Seventh at Forty-Fifth. Noah’s Ark, it’s called. Good place, easy to find –’
‘Then I’ll find you – let me go back to the hotel, change – you know? I’ll see you there –’
She went back into the hotel through the Madison Avenue entrance, hurrying up in the lift, scrabbling in her bag for her key. She needed to be alone, just for a little while, to think and sort out her feelings. Then, maybe, the party. She’d need that, need to come down before she could go to bed and get any sleep.
Even as she turned the key in her door she knew. There was someone in there, and for a moment she stood poised, as though there were time to turn away, go downstairs, call the hotel detective. But it wasn’t possible, for she had turned the key and pushed open the door and was inside, the door closed behind her, even as the thought slid through her mind.
The two men sitting on her bed stood up, politely, as she came in.
‘I thought it would be easier to pick you up here than in the Center, Miss Dundas,’ Greening said gently, and smiled so that dimples appeared in both cheeks this time. ‘That was quite a welcome you got, wasn’t it? You are a very popular lady, indeed you are.’
‘Get out. Get out or I call the police, you hear me? I’m not going to be –’
He shook his head gently. ‘But there’s no need to get excited, Miss Dundas! No one’s going to force you to do anything! No one’s going to force you to do anything at all. No one at all! Are they, Harty? No, of course not –’
The blond man said nothing, just nodding and smiling. I’ve never heard him say anything at all, come to think of it, Maggy thought wildly. Maybe he’s a robot.
‘ – we just want you to talk to this old friend of yours. Just –’ And he moved from the side of the bed, and she shrank away, back towards the door, and he smiled yet again. ‘No need to be anxious! No one is going to hurt you, you know. My, you are a nervous lady, aren’t you?’
Somehow Hartford had managed to get behind her while she wasn’t looking and she turned and stared at him, her eyes dilated with fear as he leaned against the door, and Greening picked up the phone and dialled for a line and then a number. He listened for a moment and then said, ‘She’s here. Just hold the line a moment, will you?’ and held the phone out to her.
There was nothing else she could do; she stood and stared at him and then, slowly, moved across the room and took the phone from him.
‘Miss Dundas? Margaret Rose?’
The voice was warm and soothing, even through the distortion of the phone and she listened, saying nothing, breathing deeply.
‘It is Margaret Rose, isn’t it? It’s been a long time, Margaret Rose.’ His voice sounded comfortable, familiar, yet at the same time there was an exotic quality to it and she thought absurdly, ‘He’s English – no, he isn’t – he’s American, he’s both, he’s neither –’
‘Who are you?’ she said harshly. ‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’
‘I’m an old friend, Margaret. It’s been hard to get hold of you, one way or another. I sent my friends to meet you at the airport, just to make sure it was you, and it was, so I called. But why didn’t you call me back?’ The voice was reproachful, hurt, and for a mad moment she felt she should apologize. There was something so very warm, so very confiding about him.
‘I don’t call people I don’t know. Are you going to tell me who you are, or do I hang up on you?’ She looked at Greening, leaning against the bed and at Salmon by the door, and lifted her chin and repeated it more loudly. ‘Do I hang up on you and throw these yobs of yours out?’
‘Yobs? My friends yobs? My dear girl, have you looked at them?’ He laughed, a bubbling rich sound and she almost laughed too. It mas absurd to call that polished pair yobs. ‘As for who I am – well, it’s obvious you don’t remember me yet, so I’ll tell you. Don’t say anything. Just listen. Andy, Andy Kentish. Remember now?’
She stood there with the phone in her hand staring at Greening, who smiled gently back.
Andy Kentish. The name slipped in and out of the memories in her head, and she tried to catch it, tried to pin it to a face, a person, and then the picture lifted itself in front of her eyes. The three of them standing in front of the Creffield Road house, their arms linked, their right legs stuck out in imitation of a high kick. Dolly in the middle, Morty Lang on her right, grinning happily into the lens from under his mop of thick hair. And on her left, the smooth young face, the boy who looked so mocking and remote.
‘You’re –’ she began and the voice cut in sharply, peremptorily.
‘Don’t repeat it. Just say after me, Adam Lancaster.’
‘Adam Lancaster?’
‘That’s right,’ he purred now, soft and easy again. ‘That’s my name now. But you knew me all those years ago as Andy Kentish. But that’s a secret between us, just you and me. I don’t want anyone else to know that. Not my yobs –’ And his voice invited her to laugh.
‘And why the hell should I –’
‘Keep a secret for me? A very good question. But I think you will when I tell you what it is that we have to discuss. Now, do you want time to change? Or are you ready to come now?’
‘Come where?’
‘The boys will bring you. I wouldn’t bother to change. I thought you looked marvellous tonight, simply marvellous – almost as good as the music. You’ve come on a long way since you were that sulky little girl I knew so long ago, hmm? So come now.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She said it flatly, mulishly.
‘But of course you are! Here am I, an old friend of yours. And Morty’s and Dolly’s. Here I am with all these memories to share with you – how can you possibly not come?’
He’d won, of course. As soon as she’d first heard his name she’d known it, really. Somehow this man was part of her search, part of the past that she was trying to relive, to exorcize, and she had to talk to him. They both knew it.
They took her across town, settling her in the car with great solicitude. Greening checking that the heater was at just the level she liked, again offering her a rug. Salmon, as silent as ever, sat in the back of the car and she watched the streets flick past, trying to relax, trying to sort out the confusion in her head.
She should have called Josh, told him where she was going, so that in case of trouble they could come and fetch her. Stupid idea; as if they would have let her. All right then, she should have stopped in the middle of the crowded foyer on their way through, loudly called a bellhop, given him a message to send to Josh, told someone, somehow, so that she was protected. Too late now. Too late.
They were leaving the mid-town parts of the city behind and the East River lifted its spangled blackness ahead of them as the car crossed Fifth Avenue and went on towards Sutton Place. She could feel almost as much as see the bulk of the United Nations Building rising on her right, and she leaned forward, suddenly frightened again.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Don’t worry, Miss Dundas. We’ll stop before we hit the water!’ Greening said and laughed and she leaned back, feeling anger rise in her because he had so accurately picked up her momentary madness. What would be the point of trying to kill her, for heaven’s sake? Whatever this was about, there’d be no sense in that –
They stopped, pulling off the road into an empty lot and Greening switched off the engine.
‘It’s a little difficult to see the way here – I’ll take your arm –’ he said as he helped her out, and she let him. The moment had long since passed to be dignified, to refuse anything. They were in charge now, and passively she let herself be swept along.
The building was dark and looked far from elegant on the outside, but as they came in through the heavy main doors, she blinked. Inside it looked like the most expensive of Park Avenue apartment blocks, thickly carpeted, walls covered in heavy wild silk, cut glass crystal chandeliers. The
lift was also walled in wild silk, and purred upwards so quietly it was almost as though it weren’t moving at all. And at the top, she stepped out on to an even thicker carpet, and stood still, staring. Behind her the lift doors slid closed and she turned her head sharply, to see that Greening and Hartford had gone.
There seemed to be no one there. A vast room, clearly the penthouse of the building, the far wall was all glass and looked out on to the river. She could see the lights of Queens on the far side and there, far away to the left, the Queensborough bridge lifted its spans against the black sky. It was beautiful and quiet and she felt her tight muscles loosen as she looked at the rest of the room, the thick white carpet, the black and crimson walls, the low black furniture, the great swathe of white net curtain that hung each side of the vast windows.
‘Well, well! After all this time! How are you, my dear? It’s lovely to see you.’ He seemed to appear from nowhere, somewhere on the right side of the room and she moved sharply, turning on her heel to face him. And blinked because it was as though time had jerked backwards, and she was a child again, looking at Andy standing in the dining room at Creffield Road, smiling at her.
She took a deep breath and the illusion passed and she looked again and could see why it had happened; he still looked so young, so incredibly young. On that photograph he’d looked about twenty and looking at him now, the smooth face, the sleek hair, the faintly mocking smile, he seemed to be no more than twenty-five, if that. Yet he must be – she worked it out, counting in her head; he must be close on fifty. Forty-eight at least.
He moved forward, coming nearer to one of the big lamps on the low tables and now she could see him more clearly, and the illusion faded, but only a little. There was a soft crêpiness about his eyes and a faint line running from each side of his nose to the corners of his mouth, but his skin was taut and smooth everywhere else, and his jawline clean and sharp. Thirty maybe? Thirty-five if you wanted to be uncharitable.
‘I’m Adam Lancaster,’ he said and held out one hand, and automatically she lifted her own and he took it, and then closed the other on it, so that he was standing close, holding her, looking down into her eyes. Tall. She’d forgotten how tall. But then everyone was tall when she was nine.
‘We’ve got a lot to talk about haven’t we? Such a lot to talk about. Come and sit down, Margaret Rose.’
22
‘I’m going to need a lot of explanations for this – this hijacking,’ she said, sitting very upright. He had been busy with glasses and a soda siphon on the far side of the room, and came towards her, carrying two tall glasses frosted with ice and with long straws emerging from the frothy white mixture in them.
‘Hi-jacking? Dear child, what an expression! You’re much prettier than an aeroplane.’ The word sounded oddly English on his tongue, for his American accent was much more obvious now than it had been on the telephone. ‘This should comfort you. It’s non-alcoholic of course – we never touch alcohol here – but agreeable. Pineapple juice and coconut milk – no, don’t jump to conclusions. Try it.’
She did, suddenly aware of how empty she was. The mixture tasted pleasant and soothing and agreeably sweet, and she drank it thirstily.
‘I still want explanations.’
‘Of course you do!’ He was sitting on the low couch next to her now but not too near. There was nothing threatening at all in anything he was doing and slowly some of her tension oozed away. ‘Of course you do. And you shall have it.’
‘And an apology.’
‘You want an apology? Then you shall have that too. I apologize. Quite for what, I’m not sure –’
‘You’re – God damn it, man, you frighten the shit out of me, sending your – your characters to follow me round, pick me up like – like I’m being kidnapped –’
‘Please, Margaret Rose – there’s no need for such language! I know it is difficult for you, living the life you do, but here – please do moderate your speech, a little.’
She stared at him, feeling grubby, like a child who has been reprimanded, and he smiled gently at her. ‘You find it odd that I should object?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m trying to remember –’
‘What I was like when you first knew me?’ He sat up straighter now. ‘I don’t think you should bother to do that, my dear. It isn’t relevant. I have been born again, you see.’
She said nothing, almost gawping at him.
‘I’m sure you are surprised. Most people are when they meet someone to whom it has happened. Even more surprised – and delighted – when it happens to them.’ He put one hand on hers and it felt warm, but somehow remote, as though he were wearing invisible gloves; there was no real contact there. ‘Perhaps it will happen to you.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I told you, didn’t I, that my name here is Adam Lancaster?’
‘Yes – you said something – what is it? An alias? Are the police interested in Andy Kentish?’ She grinned then, a knowing little grin. ‘A lot of my mother’s friends used to arouse police interest, I’ve discovered. Are you another of ’em?’
‘Clearly you haven’t taken time to put yourself as much in touch as you might be with the American scene. And what will soon be the British scene. Perhaps I’d better show you.’
He got up and crossed the room and went behind the bar and began to handle some invisible equipment, and after a moment a panel lifted on the wall beside him, folding itself away to reveal a big shimmering white screen, and at the same moment the lights in the room started to dim as a faint burring sound began.
He came back and sat beside her again as the picture appeared on the screen in rich colour, sharply defined, as perfect as any she had ever seen in a cinema and she watched, too surprised to say anything.
‘Born Again!’ the screen announced in huge letters as music lifted heavily, organ music with a lilt to it; beguiling, she thought, latching onto the sound at once with her musician’s ear. Clever stuff, like cheap Bach with overtones of Bacharach, churchy yet tuneful, dripping with emotion. Sickening and bloody, bloody clever.
The screen filled with pictures of people as the music became heavier, duller; men and women hurrying purposefully through rush-hour crowds, spilling out of buses, pushing each other on pavements, faces drawn and tired and angry and despairing and blank. They made her feel tired to look at them.
‘Life today,’ the voice-over said, a deep comforting voice, ‘is a wearisome business. We work, we eat, we sleep, we work again. A never-ending cycle of effort and worry and pain. And for what? What lies at the end of it?’
The pictures on the screen dissolved, became more people, old people sitting blank and hopeless in rows in what was clearly an institution of some sort; and shuffling helplessly along slum streets, shabby, obviously hungry, abandoned.
The voice went on, lower now. ‘For what?’ Above the music came another sound, of shrieking ambulance sirens, and then pictures of a white ambulance, its light revolving hysterically, arriving at a hospital, white-coated figures rushing round to pull out a trolley. The camera closed in on the face of the figure on the trolley – eyes half open, the old face twisted, mouth lax, obviously dead. A hand came into shot, pulled a sheet over the face. ‘For what?’ repeated the voice. ‘Oblivion? Nothingness? The end of everything?’
The screen lifted into bright colours, swirling red and yellows and oranges and the music changed, became softer, more reverent. Rather more Bach and Bacharach now, she thought, staring, fascinated.
‘Not if you hear this message –’
And there he was. Andy Kentish, the man sitting quietly beside her, appeared on the screen in close-up. She looked at the face, stared at the lines, trying to see the boy she had once known, the face from the photograph, and it was there, it was there all right, and yet it wasn’t. That smooth sleekness, that smiling gentleness that gazed out at her seemed to mask the original; it was as though a perfect replica had been made of the real face and s
tuck on the top. It was real and yet it was hidden.
He began to speak, the voice coming from the screen softly as the music swelled and then sank to a faint humming, a high soft and undulating sound, and again her musician’s ear was alerted and she thought: Nabucco –
Quite what he was saying she wasn’t sure, for the voice rose and fell gently, beating on her ears like the waves of a quiet sea, firmly yet without aggression, almost stroking her. But although she could not have repeated the phrases he was using the message was coming clearly enough. He talked of redemption, letting the word slide sweetly from his lips like a curling little wavelet in a runnel of sun-warmed sand. He talked of eternity, of peace and joy and fearlessness, the end of pain and the satisfaction of all hungers. Over and over again.
After a while the image on the screen changed, though the voice and the distant strumming sound went on, and she saw a vast stadium, tier upon tier of benches rising in a great curving ellipse, people cramming every inch of them. The camera moved across the rows, showing faces in close-up, rapt, happy, wide-eyed, smooth faces. Some were young, many were old, others were indeterminate and they all looked the same; remote and enchanted, totally inaccessible. She felt that even if she had been sitting next to them, she could not have got near them, couldn’t have made them listen to her, respond to her, hear anything except that smooth undulating voice and its counterpoint of smooth undulating music.
The camera lifted, dipped and went down the rows of faces, closing in on the space in the centre of the ellipse. A tall red draped object, and on top of it a sleek white figure; standing very still, head up, hands gently crossed in front of him, he seemed to be surrounded by a nimbus of light as slowly the camera moved in, filling the screen once again with Andy Kentish’s face.
His voice rose, became more urgent as the music too lifted and became more rhythmic and less tuneful, a broken syncopated beat that got inside her head, ticking way like a demented clock. It was a remarkable rhythm, almost hypnotic in its effect, and she felt her tongue move in her mouth, clicking softly against her teeth; ta-ta-ta-t-t-t-ta –
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