Enemy From the Past

by Lilian Peake

  He dialled for an outside call and booked the seats. ‘I’ll collect the tickets at lunchtime,’ he said, grasping his rucksack and standing. Before she could stop him, he had planted a kiss on her cheek in the region of her ear and made for the door. He laughed as she playfully shook her fist at him.

  The theatre tickets were safely in Gerry’s pocket as he and Rosalind occupied their favourite table in the King’s Head, an ancient, low-timbered pub round the corner from the office. Their sandwiches had been eaten and Gerry was on to his second glass of beer when the door opened to admit a welcome burst of fresh air and two men deep in discussion.

  The warm rush of affection which Rosalind felt on seeing the first of the two men—the thin, pale-faced figure of her brother—turned cold as iced water when she recognised the taller, broader man behind him. The sense of coldness, she unwillingly acknowledged, was not of hatred but that same touch of fear she usually experienced at the sight of the man.

  ‘Here he is,’ she muttered in a melodramatic voice, ‘the superman who’s taken over the running of Compro.’ And before long, she thought, my life. She wrapped her hands around her empty glass and said, knowing they were approaching, ‘Why don’t you bow down, Gerry, in obeisance to the New Man himself, promising unswerving devotion to his cause and his Company—with a capital “C”?’

  ‘Rosa?’ She knew by Patrick’s irritable tone that she had been overheard. ‘Gerry? What’ll you have?’

  Gerry appeared to be overcome by such a question from one of the firm’s directors. In the past, Patrick Prescott and his former partner, John Welson, had usually occupied a separate table.

  Gerry turned a dull pink. ‘Er—I—’ He stared at his empty glass as if for the life of him he could not remember what it had contained. He regained his composure and said, trying to cover his embarrassment, ‘Anything as long as it’s wet.’

  Patrick smiled and took the empty glasses. To his sister he said, ‘I know your tastes.’ He motioned to Slade who had been standing, hand in pocket, watching the proceedings. ‘Sit yourself down, Slade—that is, if you haven’t been put off by my sister’s caustic comments.’

  Slade eased himself into a chair opposite Rosalind. ‘If you don’t expect friendliness, Patrick, you don’t miss it,’ he said.

  Rosalind gazed at him, seeing his twisted smile. Friendliness, something inside her shouted, when to your wife-to-be you should be talking about love?

  There was a pause, interrupted only by customer-sounds, the laughter, the chatter, the middle-of-the-working-day reunions with acquaintances who came from the great variety of shops and offices nearby.

  Slade looked with amused, interpreting eyes from Gerry to Rosalind. He was, Rosalind thought sourly, doing a deliberately undisguised study of the quality of their relationship.

  His lazy, cynical inspection annoyed her so much that she asked, over-sweetly, ‘Would you like me to tell you, Mr Anderson, how many times Gerry and I have slept together?’

  Gerry turned pink again and Slade gave her a crushing look. ‘I think, Miss Prescott, I can tell you that.’ With a glance at Gerry, he added, ‘But I won’t embarrass your companion any more than he already is by enlarging on the subject.’

  Rosalind saw Patrick approaching, holding glasses and tankards. She persisted with her pinpricks. ‘You’re revealing a perception I never suspected you had, Mr Anderson.’

  Slade’s eyes slewed towards her. ‘I possess a multitude of qualities which you, with your limited intellect, don’t even have the mental equipment to guess at.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Patrick, seeing his sister’s burning face and stormy eyes, ‘can’t I even leave you for a few minutes without you both trying to tear each other to pieces?’ He distributed the drinks around the table.

  ‘When attacked, Patrick,’ Slade responded, ‘I invariably retaliate, in either word or deed.’ A narrow glance at Rosalind told her, ‘Remember that, will you?’

  ‘Slade,’ said Patrick with the air of someone separating two snarling dogs, ‘meet Gerry, Gerry Alton, one of our computer programmers.’

  Gerry, who had been hiding behind his glass of beer, drinking in large swallows, put the glass on the table and said, ‘Hi,’ extending his hand when Slade leant across the table with his.

  ‘Name’s Anderson,’ said Slade. ‘I’m sure our personnel officer here has already informed you of her opinion of me.’ His cool glance touched Rosalind’s face, but it did nothing to reduce the warmth in her cheeks.

  The three men talked for a while about the technicalities of their work and Gerry answered Slade’s questions about the project on which he was currently working. Now and then, Gerry was forced to pause and think before he replied. Rosalind, knowing of Gerry’s struggles to come to grips with the problems which seemed constantly to be troubling him in the course of his work, could only push the crumbs from her sandwiches around the plate and hope that the answers Gerry gave were correct.

  If they weren’t, the fact would not escape Slade’s notice. As Patrick had implied, Slade Anderson had an intellect that was of the highest calibre. Rosalind was acutely aware of the fact that, no matter how Gerry tried to bluff his way out of the tight mental corners into which Slade seemed to be pushing him, Gerry’s weaknesses were slowly but relentlessly being found out.

  At last Slade looked at his watch, then at Patrick. Gerry took the hint and rose. Rosalind stood, too. Slade leant sideways and had a few quiet words with Patrick, who put out a cautioning hand. ‘Rosalind, can you spare a few minutes?’

  Rosalind frowned, then shrugged, sitting down again. She knew it was an order, which had been issued to her through her brother by her fiancé. She smiled up at Gerry. ‘See you later.’ Gerry lifted his hand and ambled away.

  Rosalind looked at her brother. ‘Yes?’ she asked in a lifeless tone.

  Patrick frowned, plainly disliking his sister’s attitude. ‘Look, drop the old antagonisms, will you? Whatever happened in the past to make you so sour to Slade, just forget and forgive.’

  ‘You’re talking to the wrong person, Patrick. Tell that to your new partner. He’s the one who vowed never to for get or for—’

  ‘Let’s get back to the matter in hand, shall we?’ Slade interrupted smoothly. ‘Time flies. Oh, and—thanks, Patrick, but I can stand up for myself, especially where your sister’s concerned. Now,’ he gestured, ‘will you do the talking, or—?’

  Patrick declined, saying, ‘You’re the—’ He checked himself.

  ‘Why didn’t you say it?’ his sister jeered. ‘You’re the boss, Slade.’

  Slade gave a mirthless smile. ‘Thanks, darling, for reminding me.’ His face took on a businesslike mask. ‘You probably noticed,’ he said, ‘that Patrick and I questioned Gerry Alton about his work.’ Rosalind nodded. ‘There’s something wrong somewhere where he’s concerned, but I can’t put my finger on the trouble.’

  He was so right in his analysis after a mere ten-minute session of question and answer that Rosalind found herself deeply resenting his keen perception. ‘It could be,’ she retorted, ‘because you’ve only been with the company for one morning?’

  His jaw hardened. ‘I’m talking to you as company trouble-shooter to company personnel officer. If you find it impossible, because of your grudge against me, to be objective as befits your position in Compro, then I’ll have to ask you to leave the firm.’ Rosalind coloured deeply and clasped her hands on the table. ‘I’m sorry.’ Patrick studied the white foam patterns which still clung to the sides of his empty glass. Slade sat, elbow on the table, hand loosely against his cheek, waiting. The lunchtime chatter had grown in volume.

  ‘You’re right about Gerry,’ Rosalind said slowly. ‘Something is wrong. When we took him on to the staff, we knew he wasn’t brilliant, but I—and Duncan Varley, the other personnel officer who gives the technical interviews— thought he had potential provided he was placed in the right department and given the right project.’

  ‘It’s tru
e,’ said Patrick, ‘that we aren’t always guided by the standard of degree obtained by would-be employees and that it’s potential we look for more than academic attainment.’

  Slade indicated agreement. ‘But at the moment he’s a bit of a square peg in the proverbial round hole?’

  Rosalind nodded. ‘He’s spoken to me sometimes about his work. I think his greatest drawback is lack of confidence, plus an inability to visualise himself as part of the all-demanding world of business. Perhaps,’ she hesitated, wondering if she was giving away too many of Gerry’s secrets, things about himself which even he did not know, ‘perhaps because something inside him rejects the business world.’

  ‘The perpetual student type?’

  He was right again. ‘Maybe,’ she said tonelessly. ‘But I’ll talk to him again, try to get to the root of his problems.’

  ‘Good.’

  There was a pause and she looked at Slade, awaiting the next question. She caught a strange expression in his eyes but like a melting snowflake, it was gone before she could study its shape and meaning. Even as she looked, the temperature in those eyes dropped to zero. Patrick rose, pushing back his chair. ‘I’ll leave you two—’

  The prospect of walking back to the office alone with Slade brought Rosalind to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  In the end they all returned together, Patrick and Slade in front, Rosalind being forced by the crowds to follow behind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN Rosalind and Gerry returned from the theatre, Slade was stretched out in an armchair which happened to be Rosalind’s favourite. He was talking to Patrick but stopped in mid-sentence when she and Gerry appeared. Glasses and opened beer cans stood on small tables beside them.

  Rosalind, with Gerry beside her, surveyed the scene, thinking, Slade looks as if he owns this place just as he owns the business, not to mention me. But Patrick looked content enough. Why shouldn’t he? she thought bitterly. He’s sold his business, his sister, just about stopping short of his soul for that contentment.

  Patrick glanced at the two of them as they stood in the doorway, immediately losing interest. Slade made as if to rise, managing to convey the impression that having to display such politeness to the woman who was his fiancée was almost more of an effort than his body could take.

  ‘Please don’t bother,’ Rosalind said to him. ‘You might strain your muscles if you let your good manners get the better of you.’

  Slade, instead of becoming angry as she had intended, laughed out loud. Patrick smiled. Smarting at being the object of the two men’s amusement, Rosalind invited Gerry to enter. Slade looked expressionlessly from one to the other and Patrick lifted an empty can. ‘Have a beer, Gerry. Plenty more in the kitchen.’

  Which, Rosalind thought, neatly excludes me. Gerry looked thirstily at the can, but Rosalind said, ‘Come on, Gerry, let’s leave these two tycoons of industry to drink themselves silly. We’ll go upstairs and find that cassette of country music I said I’d lend you.’ She swung round—and caught the thirst in Gerry’s eyes. ‘All right, we’ll collect a couple of cans from the kitchen, then we’ll go upstairs.’

  ‘What an invitation, Gerry,’ Slade drawled, his eyes hard as they rested on his fiancée. ‘The lady’s asking you up to her room. If she tires you out, just shout and I’ll come and take your place.’

  He watched with sardonic amusement as embarrassment reddened Gerry’s face and anger coloured Rosalind’s.

  ‘You should cut down your alcoholic intake, Mr Anderson,’ she snapped. ‘It gives you a warped sense of humour.’

  She swept along the passage to the kitchen. Gerry caught her up. ‘Maybe I’d better not stay. You’ve got company—’

  ‘He’s not company. My brother offered him a room and now he’s living here. Just like one of the family.’ She spoke sarcastically and Gerry’s eyes expressed astonishment. ‘We were all kids together,’ she explained. ‘Slade and Patrick, Emma—Slade’s sister—and me. Emma’s about my age. She’s a nursing Sister working for an agency. Our families lived next door to each other.’

  Opening the fridge door, she took out a can of beer and one of Coke. She led the way to the stairs, where Gerry hesitated, looking at the partly-opened living-room door.

  Rosalind linked her arm in his and urged him upwards. The house was Victorian in age and the staircase was wide enough to allow two to ascend it together. The living-room door swung wide and Rosalind glanced back to see Patrick emerge and go towards the kitchen, while Slade watched Rosalind and her visitor.

  The cassette she wanted was in a rotating rack. She extracted it and played it softly, while Gerry bent down to examine her collection of records. He had been to her room before, but now he seemed awkward and inhibited. He had found a poster on her wall and studied it as if learning it by heart.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Gerry,’ Rosalind said gently, ‘relax! Slade Anderson won’t refuse to employ you just because you’re friendly with his—’ she had so nearly said ‘fiancée’, ‘his partner’s sister.’

  A particularly nostalgic piece of music was playing and the girl singer had a winsome voice. Unbidden, Slade’s face came into Rosalind’s mind, bearing a look which she knew she would never see—tender and loving. The pain she experienced was both unbearable and frightening. Was her verbal sparring with Slade just a smokescreen to disguise her true feelings from both herself and from him? Even though he cared nothing for her?

  Gerry’s voice broke in, with his eyes remaining on the Alpine poster on the wall, ‘You know I want us to be more than friends.’ Momentarily, the statement threw her off balance, then she crossed to the door and closed it, returning to sit on the bed. Gerry turned. ‘You keep bringing me up here, you drape yourself all over that,’ he indicated the bed, ‘yet all the time you keep me at arm’s length. What are you trying to do, get me in such a state I can’t stop myself from hurling myself at you—or don’t you really know what effect you have on a man?’

  Rosalind closed her eyes. She should, she told herself, have foreseen this. Rising from the bed, she put her arms on Gerry’s shoulders. His hands came to rest on her waist. There was such a look of longing in his eyes that she ignored her better judgment which urged her to ease herself away. He moved suddenly and pressed his lips against hers. She jerked free then and turned her head away, releasing his shoulders.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ he muttered, ‘what’s a kiss? We’ve been out together this evening.’

  ‘Sorry, Gerry, but—well’—she knew she should tell him about Slade, ‘things are—complicated. I—’ He looked so puzzled she reached up and brushed his mouth with hers, afterwards pulling away. She switched off the cassette deck, removed the cassette and returned it to its container. This she handed to him, then went to the door and opened it. Outside there was a murmur of voices which she knew would prevent a recurrence of the kiss.

  He looked put out, as she supposed he had a right to be.

  ‘You know what you are?’ he said. ‘A tormenting little—’

  ‘Sh-sh! Please—don’t say any more. I’m sorry about it, about everything. I ought to tell you—’

  He was not listening. ‘I’ve got a room in a house I share. There’s space in my bed for two. Come and live with me, Rosalind.’

  She opened her lips to protest but closed them on the explanation which she knew was due to him. It was unfair to let him go on wishing, hoping … What could she say to discourage without hurting?

  The answer she gave was not fair, either, she reproached herself, but she gave it all the same. ‘I’ll—I’ll think about it. But remember, I’m not making any promises. You do understand, Gerry?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  She had eased the door open with her foot. Now she took his hand and led him down the stairs. On the front step he grabbed her and before she could protest, he had kissed her soundly. Footsteps descended the stairs. Guessing the owner of them, Rosalind, in defiance, started to yield, allowing the kiss and e
ven, defiantly, returning it.

  When they parted, Gerry’s face was radiant. He walked down the garden path whistling. Rosalind closed the front door and turned to face her fiancé.

  He looked her over, noting the slightly twisted office dress which she had been unable to change before going to the theatre.

  He commented contemptuously, ‘A happy man walks away. A cool, unmoved girl watches him go. How many men have you entertained to bring you to the state where their passion and its gratification leave your emotions so unstirred?’

  She hit back, knowing deep down that she was in the wrong in not telling Gerry of her engagement, ‘So now I’m nothing but a—a cheap, sleep-around female!’

  He pushed his hands into the pockets of the casual pants into which he had changed, having pulled a sweater over his shirt. ‘The implication was intended.’

  ‘Thanks. And you, you’ve lived a rigidly ascetic, detergent-clean life? Not a single woman has kissed you, or you kissed her, and you’ve slept every single night all alone in your bed?’

  He shook his head with mock-sadness. ‘No, my sweet Rosalind, it’s impossible for me to put my hand on my heart and swear I’ve never had a woman in my arms or in my bed.’ He paused, as if turning a thought over in his mind, but when he spoke it seemed to bear no relation to that thought. ‘I’ll get out my old address book one evening and we’ll add up the number of my affairs and those you’ve had and see whose total is the higher. Going on tonight’s performance, I’d calculate you’ve won by a long way.’

  ‘Don’t try to justify your own low moral standards by attributing them to me, too!’

  ‘No?’ he replied coldly. ‘I heard Alton ask you to go and live with him. Instead of telling him the truth—that you were engaged to me—you said you’d “think about it”. Or do you intend to run your marriage and your love affair concurrently, side by side? One night your husband, next night your lover—’