by Sarah Rayne
The jacket, over her ordinary jeans and the scarlet silk vest, looked astonishing. She tried the vest with a bra and then without. Without, it clung to her breasts like wet tissue paper. No bra, then. She looked like a biker from the sixties, or a street-walker, which was the whole idea. The braless vest would give Raffael something to think about. Ginevra concentrated on Raffael’s reactions, partly because it was an alluring idea, but also because it stopped her from dwelling too much on what might be ahead.
She twisted her hair into a tail on top of her head, leaving trailing strands all round, which gave her a faintly sluttish look. Thick make-up: industrial-strength eye make-up and lipstick like jam, and the earrings. Now she looked like the town harlot. ‘In silk and scarlet walks many a harlot . . .’ Or what about, ‘It’s a brave night to cool a courtesan’ – King Lear, was that? She needed the English tutor to put her right – no, she didn’t. Anyway, looking like this, leer was an appropriate word.
‘Why is the League of Tamerlane only taking boys?’ asked Ginevra, wandering around Raffael’s rooms, trying not to think too much about what was ahead by guessing which were his possessions and which were the landlord’s. The books were clearly Raffael’s – no Canning Town landlord ever read Voltaire or Rousseau in the original French – and the table lamp and the very beautiful peacock-hued tapestry rug were probably his as well.
She said, ‘I meant to ask about that earlier and I forgot. I don’t mean why are they only taking prostitutes because that’s obvious – easy prey. But why not girls as well?’
‘I think it might be that the cult specifies young men.’ Raffael was peering through an uncurtained window into the street below. He was still wearing the disreputable herringbone coat which flapped around his ankles and his hair looked as if it needed brushing, and with the drifting fog silhouetting him he looked like a displaced person; the kind you saw on old forties newsreels straggling out of Poland or Czechoslovakia. He looked like somebody thrown out of Mother Russia for writing subversive literature or organising a revolution. He looked like anything other than a former Roman Catholic priest, and Ginevra wanted to reach out to him so much it was very nearly overwhelming.
‘Remember, as well, that this is a tribe who worships a female deity,’ said Raffael, still scanning the street.
‘Touaris.’
‘Yes. They might regard girls as verboten. But on the other hand it might be that females have been taken but not reported as missing.’ He drew the curtains and crossed to switch on the lamps. A small core of warmth and light sprang up.
‘And the press would be sure to play up the – the more sensational aspect,’ said Ginevra thoughtfully. ‘Or it might simply be that girls are cannier about who they go off with.’
‘Or shrewder about spotting fakes,’ said Raffael, and Ginevra grinned. ‘Why are you dressed like a street-walker, by the way?’
‘I’m going to blend into the background. I’m trying to look like somebody who frequents seedy East End pubs—’
‘You look more like the Whore of Babylon, you ridiculous child. It’s a good thing Fleury can’t see you.’ He went back to the window, and opened the curtain an inch, looking down again.
‘Are you looking to see if we’re being watched?’
‘Yes. But I can’t see anyone – in fact I can’t see anything at all in this cursed fog.’ He frowned. ‘If we fail tonight we could make a search of the disused wharves tomorrow.’
‘I hope this isn’t going to turn into the classic race against time,’ said Ginevra, trying to ignore the part about failing tonight. ‘Or even the eleventh-hour-and-fifty-ninth-minute rescue.’
‘Just so long as it is a rescue,’ said Raffael. He looked back at her. ‘You know, you shouldn’t be here at all. I ought to make you go back to Chance House, only Timur’s people are probably watching it—’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go anyway—’
‘And you can’t stay here for the same reason,’ went on Raffael, as if arguing the matter out. ‘It looks as if you’ll have to come with me after all. What an exasperating infant you are.’
‘Listen, we don’t know what’s likely to happen yet and you might be very glad I’m with you before tonight’s over—’
‘I am very glad you’re with me,’ said Raffael brusquely. ‘Haven’t you realised that yet?’ And then, before Ginevra could think of a reply to this, he said, ‘What about your family in Kensington? If we can flag down a taxi, would you go to them? No, all right, I can see you wouldn’t.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Ginevra. ‘Least of all Kensington. Jesus, they’d have a blue fit if they saw me looking like this, and—’
‘Anyone would have a blue fit seeing you like that. And don’t blaspheme.’
‘I’m going into the Anchor to see if Georgie and Baz are followed,’ said Ginevra firmly. ‘And listen, if anyone ought to be skulking out of sight it’s you; you’ll spoil everything if Timur and his whatnot League see you.’
‘They won’t see me. I’ll be with you, but I’ll be out of sight,’ said Raffael. ‘Outside the Anchor – lurking in a doorway, somewhere.’ He stiffened and motioned to her to switch off the light. Ginevra complied and padded across to the window to stand next to him. Thick yellow fog pressed against the glass and behind them the room was in darkness.
‘What is it?’
‘Someone standing on the corner,’ said Raffael. ‘Under the street light – see? You don’t need to whisper, they can’t hear us.’
‘Sorry, overall furtiveness.’ Ginevra leaned forward as far as she dared. ‘I can’t see anyone. Are you sure you aren’t seeing things?’
‘No, I’m not sure at all.’ They were standing very close together because the window was quite small and because if there was anyone watching it was important not to be seen. Raffael leaned out again, and his hair brushed Ginevra’s face. It might be uncombed, but it was clean and soft and there was a faint drift of masculine shampoo or soap. Her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast, but her mind said robustly that this was ridiculous: for one thing, he’s twice my age. It wouldn’t matter if he were four times it. And I don’t even know if he’s attracted to me – one minute he’s tossing out declarations so wrapped up in allegories that you have to peel back the layers one by one to get at the truth, and the next he’s cursing me for being in the way. And in a minute we’ll be plunging into the fog to go after an ancient flesh-eating tribe and a sacrificial altar that roasts victims alive . . . I wonder if anyone has ever had to cope with such a bizarre start to a relationship? I don’t think any kind of relationship ought to start at all.
He suddenly pulled her round to face him, his hands on her shoulders. ‘Ginevra, this is going to be appallingly dangerous,’ he said. ‘For the last time, will you let me get you a taxi to take you to your family’s house?’
‘No. Also for the last time.’
They stared at one another, and Ginevra’s heart began to pound again. Here we go . . . I think . . . If he turns away now I’ll know I misread the whole thing. One-way traffic only, kid . . . Be grateful he’s here at all.
But if his presence had been a charm, keeping the fear at bay, his touch was like a thousand-volt electric shock.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be pulled against him, and to feel his arms go around her. There was a faint comforting scent of masculinity again: fresh clean sweat and sharp male soap, and of course he was not rough trade, and even if he was she did not care.
There was nothing rough about the way he kissed her, although there was a kind of banked-down hunger, as if this was something he had been fighting to keep in check. Instant attraction, thought Ginevra, feeling an astonished spiral of delight soar. Then I was right after all. I only hope it isn’t fatal attraction. She was aware of the most astonishing assortment of emotions, all warring for recognition. Thoughts like: I’d better not let this get as far as the bedroom. And then: I’d better not even let it get as far as the hearth. He’s an ex-pr
iest – yes, I’ll remember that. I don’t really care if he’s a former devil-worshipper. He’s Scheherazade and Schahriar, and he’s Keats and Byron and the Medici princes all rolled up into one . . . I’ve never met anyone like him – I don’t think there is anyone like him. And he’ll probably spoil me for anyone else, yes, I ought to remember that . . . We certainly shan’t reach the bedroom at this rate. I don’t even think we’re going to get as far as the hearth . . .
It was the wildest blend of passion and spiralling romanticism and sheer frantic delight to find herself on the thick hearthrug in front of the popping gasfire – oh, we did get this far, then! – and to feel him reaching for her body, at the exact moment she was reaching for his. It was madness and it was ecstatic bliss and blissful ecstasy to see the dark eyes blaze up with passion, and to feel the hard thrust of helpless masculine need. I’m being screwed by an ex-priest while Elinor’s in the hands of a gang of twentieth-century flesh-eaters! thought Ginevra, and then: no, I’m not being screwed at all! – I’m being made love to. I’d better not forget Elinor and the cannibals, though. Only I can’t think about anything except what’s happening . . .
He made love with a kind of ferocious gentleness that drove out everything else, and when at last he lay back, his head on her naked shoulder, Ginevra, her spinning mind finally slowing into a deep intense calm, thought it was as if they had created an armour of warmth and safety. In a minute, in just another minute they would have to go out into the night. Only I’ll be armoured. I’ll have this to wrap around me. I don’t know how long it’ll last – the wrap, I mean – and I don’t really know how effective it’ll be, but I think it might last for quite a long time. I think I was right about being spoiled for anyone else, as well. I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry.
Raffael raised himself on one elbow, and looked down at her. ‘A benison,’ he said, echoing her thoughts. ‘A charm and a touchstone and a carapace against what’s ahead, Ginevra.’
‘Much better than Keats,’ said Ginevra, and saw his eyes darken in half-amused perplexity. ‘Just a thought. I’m glad you’re original.’ Some inner compulsion prompted her to say, ‘This was a bit sudden for me. I mean I don’t usually— Not within hours of a first meeting, that is.’ Damn, why am I sounding so immature!
Raffael smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear that, at least.’
And that’s enough for the moment, thought Ginevra, firmly. Close the subject until after tonight, and then take another look at it. She said, in a practical voice, ‘Is it time to go?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well then, let’s.’
‘Good girl.’ He looked at her for a long moment, and then said in an ordinary voice, ‘The fog looks quite thick – we’d better go hand in hand.’
Allegories again. Or was it? Ginevra said, ‘All right.’
They stared at one another, and then Raffael said in a low voice, ‘Because if I lose you in that murk I might never find you again.’
Chapter Twenty
The fog was still lying thickly over St Stephen’s Road and the fake leather jacket was not meant for a cold October night with fog coming at you from all angles. But the carapace – what Raffael had called the touchstone – was still surrounding them, and Ginevra thought that like this she could walk into anything in the world and be unafraid. She could certainly walk into the Anchor and carry out the plan they had cooked up. Stay with me, Raffael.
The Anchor, when she pushed open the door, was filled with smoke and people and loud voices, and redolent with the smell of spilled beer and cigarette smoke and hot bar food. Ginevra had been wondering what type of pubs Georgie and Baz frequented on their rounds, but it would not have been polite to ask. She liked pubs as much as anyone, but she did not like smelly back-street bars with fly-blown mirrors and cracked plastic sofas, and evidence of people having been sick in the loo.
But the Anchor was not in the least sleazy or smelly and the seats were not ripped up by flick knives or stained with last night’s vomit. It was lively and cheerful and bright, and at ten o’clock on a Friday evening it was very crowded.
Georgie and Baz were leaning against the bar, drinking lager and looking bright-eyed; Georgie had slicked his hair back with gel and put on a very snazzy striped shirt. They ignored her and went on with their conversation, which was part of the plan, and Ginevra pushed her way to the bar to buy a drink, which was also part of the plan. House wine was available by the glass and a blackboard was chalked with the bar food available tonight. Somebody could not spell chilli con came. Everything seemed so normal that she began to wonder if Raffael was the victim of a sick practical joke. But Elinor was missing and so was Lewis Chance, and so was his poor mad son. Get on with it, Gina.
She was jostled quite a bit, and several raucous suggestions came her way, which she countered by saying she was meeting someone. She thought she sounded pretty convincing and she thought she was blending quite well with the surroundings.
When her drink arrived she stayed where she was, leaning back against the bar and lifting her glass, which was the signal for Georgie and Baz to go into action. None of them had been sure if the plan would work, but Ginevra, sitting cross-legged in front of their gasfire, arguing the matter out and dealing with all objections, had won them over. Georgie and Baz could not just walk into the Anchor, or any of their other haunts, and expect Timur’s people to approach them purely because they wanted it, said Ginevra, her eyes glowing with fervour. They needed to do something to make them stand out and to seem good targets to any of Timur’s scouts. They needed to draw attention to the fact that one of them was going to be on the street by himself and therefore vulnerable.
Georgie and Baz had got quite fired up over Ginevra’s idea. Quite a performance they’d have to give, not that they minded that, Ginevra was to understand. They began to tell one another what they would do and how they would do it and what the outcome would be. Baz found a notebook and wrote everything down, and Ginevra began to worry that they would go over the top.
They did not go over the top at all. They propped themselves against the bar and began to argue, quietly at first, and then more loudly. Georgie let his voice soar several octaves, which was astonishingly convincing and also remarkably penetrating. He said he was sick of being ignored, he was nothing but a doormat in fact, and he was very sick indeed of Baz screwing around. Anybody’s, that’s what Baz was, said Georgie, working himself up to a nice pitch of near-hysteria; anybody’s for the asking, and very belittling it was as well! Ginevra, sipping her drink, listened appreciatively and sent a covert look about her. People had glanced in the boys’ direction and one or two had smirked a bit knowingly, but on the whole nobody was paying much attention. She tried to see if any foreign-looking gentlemen were watching, but there was such a motley collection in here that it might as well be Commonwealth Day.
The argument was reaching its climax. Georgie was in the nail-biting, shoulder-hunching stage and Baz was trying to reason with him, looking around in an embarrassed way, laying a hand on Georgie’s shoulder and being flung petulantly off. Academy Award-winning stuff, thought Ginevra. It would be a pity if they had to repeat this in too many pubs, because either the edge would go off it, or they would start putting in little embellishments – Georgie would certainly put in embellishments – and it would all ring false.
‘—coming home at three in the morning—’
‘—make a scene every time I speak to someone—’
‘—know quite well who you’ve been with and all I can say is I hope I don’t catch—’
‘—getting pissed off with your jealousy—’
One or two people, clearly regulars who knew the pair, looked across and cheered them on. Somebody called out, ‘Chuck him out, Baz,’ and somebody else shouted, ‘Toss him out and toss him off, Georgie,’ which raised a raucous hoot of laughter. Ginevra hoped their credibility would not suffer too much.
Baz was saying, ‘Well, you can fuck off if that’s how
you feel,’ and Georgie was responding with, ‘I will! I will fuck off, and I won’t come back – then you’ll see—’
‘Who needs you anyway!’
Georgie slammed his glass down on the counter, and pushed his way blindly through the press of people. Behind him Baz shrugged and turned his back, leaning over the bar to attract the barman’s attention for another drink, and Georgie made his way through the crowd, shrugging off one or two half-hearted approaches of sympathy – ‘Leave me alone! – Take your frigging hands off!’
The street door swung open and he went out, pausing artistically in the doorway for a moment, turning up his coat collar and giving a realistic shiver at the cold night air outside.
Ginevra stayed where she was. It was too much to hope that they would hit the mark first time, and they would probably have to meet up in the second pub on their list. Baz, carefully efficient, had written it all down and even sketched a map, so that they could arrive by separate routes. Ginevra slid one hand into her pocket to check the list for the next pub, and as she did so two dark-haired men got up from a corner table, and went unobtrusively out after Georgie. Alarm bells sounded in Ginevra’s head and she took a deep breath and set down her half-finished drink.
She gave it a count of twenty and then went out after them.
It was the classic walk through the fog-shrouded streets of London’s East End. Ginevra could almost have imagined she had fallen into a time warp, because the mist hid all the signs of modern progress; it muffled the traffic and shrouded the telegraph poles and modern architecture, but it left visible the old Victorian buildings.
In some places they called river fog The Creeper. Ginevra wished she had not remembered this, because it sounded unspeakably sinister. She went determinedly on, the mist clinging to her hair and running down Baz’s jacket in little rivulets. She could make out Georgie’s shape up ahead, and she could see the outlines of the two men who had followed him. She hesitated and glanced back, trying to see if Raffael was behind her. There was no sound but that meant nothing because Raffael moved like a cat. And Baz would be following as well, so she was not really alone at all. It was only the fog that was making her feel isolated.