Diana Christmas

by F. R. Jameson

  Diana cried in my arms and asked me to forgive her.

  Later on, I knew this was the moment I should have walked away. This was the turning point when I should have remembered what a good boy I’d been all my life, and called the police.

  But the reality was I couldn’t possibly do that. Already I loved her, adored her, was smitten beyond reason. Nobody had meant as much to me as Diana did. And she had called me for help! Left repeated messages for me: the only person in the world she could trust right then. The only one she could rely on. Yes, she had done this awful thing, but there were so many years of hurt and hatred leading up to it. If ever there was justifiable homicide, this was it.

  As the two of us curled up together on the bed, arms around each other, her head buried in my chest, I could have forgiven her virtually anything.

  From a flickering gorgeous image in old movies, she was now the most important person in the world to me. There was no way I wasn’t going to help her.

  I stroked my hand through her lovely, soft red hair, and told her I loved her.

  Saying it out loud, words I’d never uttered with passion to anyone before.

  She raised her gaze, startled somewhat, but with the beautiful sparkle starting to reassert itself in her wide, milk chocolate eyes.

  “I love you too, Michael!” Her voice was husky with emotion. “I thought you’d think me a silly, clingy old woman if I told you, but I love you too. I love you so, so much!”

  We clutched each other close in the tastefully decorated, pastel bedroom. Just the two of us, the rest of the horrible world locked safely out.

  As if suddenly embarrassed by how stained it had become, she sat up out of my arms and undid her blouse, then threw it casually to the corner of the room, missing the laundry basket by about a foot. With a toss of her hair, she found sanctuary in my arms again. My fingers were tingling as I ran them over her naked shoulders and bare back. Excitement welled in me at the sensation of her round breasts, clad now only in a white lace bra, pressing into my side.

  When she spoke, she whispered, as if there might be someone listening.

  “I need an alibi, Michael. That’s all I can think of, some kind of alibi. What if the police carry out a proper investigation into his death and pick up on the fact I got a taxi over there? It’s all I can think about. What reason could I possibly give for being in that part of London? How long before they realise that Carlisle and I actually knew each other?

  “After it happened, I tried to be calm, I took deep breaths. I made sure I carried the knife with me and got as far away from his hovel as quickly as possible. When I walked, I stayed on the backstreets. Certainly I didn’t go past those lads again. I didn’t want to give the impression I was hurrying, but oh, I was hurrying.

  “I don’t know how, I’ve never been there before, but I managed to end up in The Elephant and Castle. That’s where I got the taxi from. I was so paranoid by this point, Michael, that I didn’t have the driver take me all the way home. Instead I had him drop me at Ely’s in Wimbledon, then I walked to Wimbledon train station and got another taxi from there. I had the driver take me to Kingston Bridge, then, when no one was looking – or at least I felt sure no one was looking – I dropped the knife into the Thames. All the rest of the way home, I was trying to be inconspicuous, but I was conscious of how shaky I was. No, it was more than that, I was weeping and weaving like a madwoman. It was the shock, Michael, it must have been the shock!

  “What if the police pick up on that? What if they find out about my trip to Bermondsey? They might realise I tried to do all I could to disguise my journey home. It’s a nightmare. If they find that out, then I’m bound to be their number one suspect. And that’s before they realise my connection with Carlisle Collins. Oh, this is horrible, Michael. I’m going to be caught, aren’t I? They’re going to bring me in!”

  Soothing my hand through her hair, I conjured up lies like a used car salesman. “It’s no problem. We could just say that we met for Sunday lunch in one of the nicer pubs around Borough Market. There was an article about a couple of them in Time Out a few weeks back. As for the taxi home, we could say we went for a stroll afterwards and got the train from Waterloo. If they ask about those other taxi rides, we’ll just deny it was you. It’ll be fine, Diana, all perfectly fine.”

  If I’d been thinking more sensibly, the idea of dissembling to the police would have absolutely terrified me, but right then it seemed perfectly reasonable.

  Her mind whirred furiously, probing for any flaws in my plan.

  “What if they ask us which pub? You have to go and take a peek at them, find out what they’re like. Do it as soon as you can! Make sure that we’re able to describe it. Make sure it’s big enough so if they question the staff, it won’t be strange that they don’t remember us. Look at the menu, so we know what we would have had and can say how delicious it was.”

  “I will, Diana, I will.”

  I didn’t think any police investigation into Carlisle Collins’ death would be more than cursory. But I didn’t make that point with any force. I was happy holding her tight, feeling her warm, smooth skin in my arms, knowing I could protect her.

  “Have you told anyone else?” I asked her.

  “No, darling, of course not.” Her eyes weren’t as red-rimmed any more, though a latent smear of mascara did make them look sleepy. “You’re all I have. Who else would I tell?”

  My broken nose and cracked ribs ached. “Was there anyone else there? Did you mention my name at all?”

  “No, of course not.” Her voice was soft and soothing. “Of course not on both counts. If his goons come for me, you’ll look after me, won’t you, Michael? You’ll make sure they won’t hurt me?”

  The fact that I’d been picked up off the pavement and taken to hospital once today suggested I wasn’t going to be the best knight in this instance. But still I agreed. She undid two of my buttons and reached her hand under my shirt, stroking along the bottom of the bandages. Her fingernails teased against my naked stomach.

  I had no idea how this morning’s boys had found me, no idea why they’d thought it was me who’d killed Carlisle, but for then it was another thought to lock out of the bedroom along with every other unpleasantness of the world.

  “I’ll take care of you, Diana. I’ll love you and be there for you no matter what. I promise I’ll protect you from any trouble.”

  A half-smile on her face, she pecked my lips. “You have no idea how much that means to me, how grateful I am to have found you. I just wish I had that film. I know Carlisle’s copy must be gone, but still I wish I could get my hands on one. It’s irrational, I’m fully aware of that, but somehow I’d feel better. As if it couldn’t hurt me as much then.” Her eyes widened. “If there was a chance of getting it, you would help me, wouldn’t you, Michael?”

  “Of course, Diana. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Michael.”

  Again she kissed me, lingering this time. She kissed me softly, and she kissed me deeply. Then, with the intensity of emotion, we made love passionately, if as gently as we could. The only two people in the world right then who mattered.

  Chapter Ten

  10th December, 1979

  Trouble did not take long to arrive.

  I was up early the following morning. We were both awoke with the milk float and couldn’t keep our hands off each other. In between making love and having breakfast and the shower in which she surprised me, she made me promise to go to Borough and ensure our alibi was all in order. Even as I left, her body gloriously naked below her silk dressing down and with a devilish smile on her face, she didn’t want to let me go. She only relented when I told her that I’d probably get fired if I didn’t show up two mornings in a row, no matter how many bandages I had on display. Grinning, she reached into her floral purse and gave me the train fare back to Waterloo, as long as I promised to come back to her as soon as I could after my post-work errand.

  As it turned out, I didn
’t need the train fare to Waterloo.

  After a tender kiss goodbye, I gave her a wave goodbye at her front gate. Already I was counting down the seconds to my return.

  To get to the station I had to go down the hill into Kingston upon Thames itself, and as I did I passed a sleek, immaculately polished silver-grey Rolls-Royce. I thought nothing of it. Timmy Williams had settled his wife into a plush neighbourhood, looked after her well. I still thought nothing of it even as the driver’s door opened and out stepped a huge Indian man in a beautifully tailored, black chauffeur’s uniform.

  It only really got my full attention when, the second after I passed him, he grabbed my arm and wrenched it high behind my back. Before I’d even had a chance to scream, he slammed me into the side of the Rolls – my head jerking forward so I kissed the ice-cold metal – then he seized the scruff of my neck and bundled me forcefully into the back seat.

  I stared back at the door, watching it slam ominously shut. My gaze swung frantically around, expecting to see some menacing associate of Carlisle Collins, a razor-cut snarl on his face as he laid into me with a violence the likes of which I couldn’t yet conceive.

  Instead, I gave an audible gasp as my shock doubled. My mouth and eyes competed as to which could go wider with surprise. I’m sure I even trembled. Staring at me across the back seat was a man I recognised instantly: Grayson Gilbert.

  Tall and rangy, with unkempt silver hair and an overgrown goatee beard which hung off the end of his chin and surely tickled his chest, he seemed to have stepped straight from the photo pages of Classic Cinema Monthly. He looked exactly as he’d done the one time I’d seen him speak, at a special screening of one of his old thrillers, Widow’s Creek, which had starred – in a small, but pivotal role – Diana Christmas.

  Grayson Gilbert sat calm and nonplussed, his entire persona one of bemused affability. His fittingly grey eyes had a certain steeliness to them, but weren’t unyielding. It was as if he was happy to greet the world with open arms, but wouldn’t tolerate it crossing him.

  Without me even noticing, the chauffeur had slid himself behind the steering wheel again.

  “Drive on please, Romesh!” Gilbert barked.

  The car moved smoothly away from the kerb. That early in the morning, it was as if there was nothing else on the road, like Grayson Gilbert owned the world.

  The great director smiled at me, thin-lipped but undeniably welcoming. He was dressed in a rumpled cream suit and held a silver-topped cane between his legs. It was pressed to the floor so he could lean his weight on it if need be. With his right hand he tapped the seat between us, as if he might be inviting a cat or dog to come and join him.

  Despite my bandages, I’d felt like one of life’s winners that morning. Now every part of me ached again.

  “I really must apologise –” his speaking voice was both charming and gravelly “– for the somewhat unnatural way I was forced to make your acquaintance today. I could have beaten around the bush and thought of some clever and subtle way we could have met, but I’m not a patient man, Mr Mallory. I like to cut straight to the quick. Some people, although I’ll grant that you’re probably not one of them right now, even admire me for my directness.”

  I stared at him, trying to hide my astonishment. When I was a young teenager – old enough to read film criticism and understand there was someone with vision “directing” the films I loved – Grayson Gilbert was one of my heroes. He was a Hitchcock who had stayed in Britain (or at least Europe) and who made stark thrillers about morally dubious men trying to do the right thing but facing terrible odds. Sometimes the protagonist beat those odds, but more often than not the antihero ended his days face-down on the tarmac of some dingy English street. He never got the right break in Hollywood, but the critics at Cahiers du Cinéma adored him. As did I. At the centre of his films were lonely men whose luck deserted them, and they were the type of pictures that a sad and lonely adolescent in the West Country could bond with to a high level.

  Even though few people watched his films, in recent years Grayson Gilbert had, incredibly, become a household name in Britain. It was chiefly thanks to the lavish parties he threw in his home, photos from which were constantly appearing in the society pages.

  And now he was sitting beside me. Now he’d kidnapped me.

  “How do you know my name?” My mind was in a tumult, and the words just burst forth – as if that in any way could be the most important issue right now.

  Slowly he turned and glared out of the window, at dark and cold Kingston upon Thames moving past us. It was hot in the car, the heating bringing out the mingled smells of good leather and fine cigars. The expression on his face suggested he was treating my question with endless disdain.

  “I know your name, Mr Mallory, as you are connected to Diana, and Diana was – and is – a favourite of mine. A true favourite. Like a long-lost yet much lamented niece. Once upon a time she was the apple of my eye, the peach of my affections. I always look out for Diana, Mr Mallory, always have and always will. You in particular I have kept tabs on, as I am indirectly responsible for your meeting. It was I who suggested to your editor that he send someone to Diana’s front door to maybe get her out of herself in her hour of grief. I thought he’d send that old poof, Walkinshaw, but for reasons I can only hazard a guess at, McTavish sent you. And since your relationship with Diana has quite obviously progressed far beyond a showbiz interview, I am duty-bound to intervene and make sure that you’re not using her for your own ends. I want to establish that she is in no danger of being hurt by you.”

  I found myself straightening up on the plush burgundy leather seats, my voice coming out as a solemn promise. “I’m not going to hurt her,” I told him. Then, with a blush rising to my cheeks: “I love her.”

  He turned his gaze back to me, an amused smile at each corner of his mouth. “Of course you do, of course you do – that’s only to be expected. A young man like you, inexperienced in the ways of the world, I’d say that quite obviously you’ve fallen in love with her. It was inevitable. Of course you’d do anything for her. So…” He let out a deliberately melodramatic sigh. “The question will have to be reversed – is she in danger of hurting you?”

  “I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

  “It’s a fair question. You have offered up your heart, you have made yourself vulnerable with your declarations of love. So the question becomes, is she – a far more experienced woman of the world than you would ever have had dealings with before – going to hurt you? Some men live for the heartbreak, Mr Mallory, they find it gives them depth. Are you one of them?”

  “She loves me.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes. More than once.”

  “And you believe her?”

  A flush spread right across my face, equal parts hurt and embarrassment. “Yes.” My answer was firm.

  “Good for you!” Gilbert leant his head forward, resting it on the cane, staring over at the back of his chauffeur’s head as if what he was actually seeing was a vast expanse of pristine blue ocean. “Good for you, Mr Mallory. Treasure these days, hold them dear. When you’re an older man like me and you look back on these amorous adventures of yours, you should be able to remember every detail you can of them. They should amaze you then just as much as they do now. Diana has a way, Mr Mallory, of becoming whatever a man wants her to be. And for this while at least, she has chosen to be what you want her to be. That should be something to give you a great deal of pride for the rest of your life, Mr Mallory. That Diana Christmas – England’s Rita Hayworth; the red-headed, sex-bomb wit of the silver screen – became, for a time, what you wanted her to be.”

  “I think I know her!” My petulance was impossible to hide.

  All he gave me was a glance, but it was enough to show the twinkle of experience in his old grey eyes, eyes which were made for black and white movies.

  “As well as I do?” he asked with a smirk. “No, I don’t think so, Mr Mal
lory. I don’t think so at all. Bluff, old, charmless Timmy Williams was married to Diana for nigh on two decades, and on the odd occasion my path was unlucky enough to cross his, I got the impression he didn’t really know her at all. He claimed to be talking about his wife, but I didn’t recognise his descriptions as being of Diana.”

  Flustered, insulted, but having no idea how to get past this man’s supreme self-confidence, I stared out of the window. I tried to collect myself somewhat, get over the shock of the morning, the fact that my ribs hurt so badly. Suburban London moved in a hazy blur outside the glass. I had no idea where I was, but it seemed like we were heading north.

  Grayson Gilbert jerked my attention back into the Rolls.

  “So, you love each other?” he purred. “A May to December romance, and such a speedy one too. But before I instruct my tailor to knock up a new suit for the wedding, tell me this, Mr Mallory – where does Carlisle Collins fit into your blissful scenario?”

  There was no way I could hide my sheer astonishment. No poker face I could put on to call his bluff. I sat in silence, my heartbeat seeming to pound right around my skull.

  He grinned at me, in much the same way a shark might grin at a midnight swimmer in Amity. “Relax, Mr Mallory. I may pry into Diana’s well-being and keep thoughts of her safety close to my heart, but Mr Collins’ well-being – or lack of – is completely irrelevant to me. That said, I found it most interesting to hear of his demise. Particularly given his past connections with Diana. Particularly, Mr Mallory, when the same whispered voices on the grapevine told me Mr Collins had a visitor Friday afternoon. A young, bespectacled, quite educated young man, who seemed as out of place as a pinch-faced nun waltzing at a Hells Angels’ convention.”