It wasn’t surprising that Roman was mad about her. ‘Crazy’ was the word he used. Sometimes he spoke like an American, which she liked better than when he put on his stuffy English accent. ‘I am crazy about you. I can’t get you out of my mind,’ he had told her the night before, between kisses. ‘When I am not with you, I don’t feel right. I get restless, anxious, depressed. I can’t settle down to doing anything important. I keep seeing you. You are inside my head. My life is dominated by my desire for you. I desire you all the time. Do you understand? All the time.’
Ria’s hand went up to her cleavage and she smiled again, a slow, lazy smile.
I can’t get you out of my mind. Her father had written something on those lines in one of his letters. Roman was as obsessed with her as her father had been, now wasn’t that freaky? People did do crazy things when they were obsessed with someone . . .
Roman had said he’d kill his wife. Would he really do it? Well, he sounded as though he meant it – if Sarla refused to divorce him, if she tried to make any trouble between them. There was no question of him doing it in person of course. He’d have Sarla bumped off. He could do it, easily. Everybody listened to him. He had the local police eating out of his hand. It wasn’t without a reason that he was known as the king of Goa.
She had dreamt that she was being followed. Funnily enough the other day she had had the feeling that someone was following her. She had been in the market place. She hadn’t seen the person but the feeling had been there all right. Somebody’s eyes boring into her. She thought it was a man. Well, it had to be a man. Was it possible that Roman was having her followed? Did Roman suspect that she might be seeing somebody else? She had caught him watching her speculatively on a number of occasions.
Did Roman know about –? Superstitiously Ria tried not to think of the boy’s name. She wasn’t ‘seeing’ him. She had ‘seen’ him once. Still, Roman was pathologically jealous. She didn’t want to think what he might do if he got to hear about it. She shouldn’t have done it. It was interesting the way her father had been transformed into Roman, but then that was the illogicality of dreams. Was her subconscious trying to warn her about Roman?
7
The Shadow
The moment he had stepped off the plane he was enveloped in a surge of stifling hot air which might have sprung from some steam room. Blistering heat. He remembered his thoughts: I am moving towards dissolution.
On the minibus, as they drove away from the airport, he felt ill, feverish, drained of all energy. Dozing off, he dreamt he was on board a ship. At first all seemed to be well, the most marvellous indigo sea, but then the ship started shaking and suddenly they found themselves invaded by hairy apelike creatures with hungry burning eyes. The creatures swarmed about the deck and started gnawing the ropes and cables with their sharp teeth. He saw the mast toppling, coming towards him – he tried to jump out of its way and woke up with a violent start.
It had taken him several moments to remember where he was and why. He had stared out of the dusty minibus window at the angry, orange-red sky. The air was full of dust; it made him cough. Most of the people on the bus wore turbans and they spoke in a language he could not understand. He felt so disoriented, for a moment he convinced himself this was another dream. But of course it wasn’t a dream. He found himself wondering how normal, ordinary people spent their lives.
The minibus had stopped at a petrol station that looked like a shack. He thought of getting off and stretching his legs, but decided against it. He couldn’t believe how desolate everything looked. An alien landscape of great menace, at least that was how he saw it.
He continued gazing out of the window. He saw a little bird get caught in a curtain of creepers across the brick wall adjoining the shack, its wings beating helplessly. The next moment a copper-coloured snake appeared from somewhere – such a large head – he could see its forked tongue flick in and out from where he sat! The snake slithered fast. Aware of its approach the bird made one last futile effort to disentangle itself –
He had looked away. His ears had rung with the bird’s desperate chirruping. He had heard some of his fellow passengers laugh and whistle.
Thank God they had driven away.
It had come as a shock to see her in the hotel foyer, sitting in one of the leather chairs, wearing a snuff-coloured tropical suit, drinking tea and looking through a three-month-old copy of Country Life. The ground moved under his feet with a dancing sway and it had suddenly felt dark and extremely close, as though an old-fashioned photographer’s black hood had been drawn over his head. He had stood and stared. He had been rendered speechless.
At first he thought she was a mirage conjured up by the heat, but the next minute she had opened her mouth and spoken to him. She had managed to track him down. She’d booked in at the same hotel. Well, where else? This seemed to be the only decent place around. She patted the sofa beside her and asked him to sit down. Would he have some tea? She told him not to be agitated – his face was too red – it was bad for him – he should keep calm in this appalling heat. Before he knew what she was doing, she reached out for his wrist and checked his pulse. She had brought his medicine, she said. Was he aware he’d left his medicine behind? He said he didn’t need any medicine. He felt better without it! He glared at her. He asked her what she thought she was doing. Why had she followed him? Who the hell did she think she was? His bloody shadow? Couldn’t she leave him alone – ever?
She had remained unruffled. Not in the least discomfited. She was good in a crisis. Well, he had to hand it to her. She had nerves of steel. She feared for him, she said – for his health and safety. Roman Songhera wouldn’t be happy if he knew what he was planning to do, would he? She seemed convinced his mission was doomed to fail. Something in her voice made it clear to him that she wanted it to fail. She looked so terribly smug and self-righteous. She was not quite human. She was right about that filthy wop, though. Roman Songhera was dangerous.
She meant to take good care of him, she said. He might not realize it but he needed her.
He told her she was an infernal nuisance. He didn’t want her here. He wished she could go away. He said he didn’t trust her. He hated her. He reminded her how she had urged him to adopt a resigned and a non-emotional attitude and become reconciled to his ‘loss’. Well, he refused to become reconciled to his ‘loss’, so there! She gave an indulgent smile and patted his hand. She had already ordered more tea. China tea. Extremely refreshing, she said. The kind of tea one got at Brown’s. We are at Brown’s, he pointed out. She made a moue – well, yes – not quite the real thing, though, was it?
She produced a pill and instructed him to put it under his tongue. He grumbled but did as asked. It was easier that way. He didn’t have the energy to argue. He shut his eyes. He felt her hand on his forehead. Her hand was cool and dry. He felt calmer. He told her he didn’t want her to interfere in his affairs. Don’t try to stop me, he said. I wouldn’t dream of it, she said. He looked at her suspiciously. He was sure she was humouring him now.
There was another English couple in the foyer. He listened to their conversation absently.
‘There was an advertisement at Reception,’ the woman was saying. ‘One could have one’s very own personal guru, apparently.’
‘What should I want with a guru?’ the man grumbled.
‘A personal guru helps you meditate and purify your inner self, so that you can look inwards and find peace and tranquillity.’
‘I’d rather have a gin than a guru!’ Laughing, the man snapped his fingers. ‘Waiter!’
He held his eyes tightly shut, trying to persuade himself that when he opened them, she’d be gone. We are in this together, he heard her say. You need me. I will do everything to help you. It isn’t so bad here, actually. If one stuck to the hotel and didn’t mind the smells, one could imagine one was in England. Besides, the place is not without beauty. It is the violet hour now – that’s what they call it – look.
Relu
ctantly he looked. She was right about that too, blast her. He had to admit she was often right. The place was not without beauty. Indeed. The late afternoon sun was filtering through the jacaranda trees, casting sublime purple shadows on the terrace. He heard her cancel his single room and book a suite for the two of them . . .
Tomorrow. He’d go tomorrow. No point delaying.
He had to see her.
He had a bad feeling about it.
8
When a Stranger Calls
Pulmonary embolism . . .
Ria reached out and picked up her aunt’s letter once again. As though she cared! Why did some people insist on quoting post-mortem results in obscure medical terminology? On second thoughts, it was good to know the precise phrase – she found that reassuring – it made her father’s death real. Well, this meant she wouldn’t be writing any more letters. She sighed. She’d miss that. The letters had become a part of her life. The game was over. She felt disappointed – empty. A great sadness swept over her. How funny. She suddenly felt tearful. She wanted to howl. What the fuck was wrong with her? Withdrawal symptoms?
What else had her aunt written? Nothing much. It wasn’t a particularly cordial letter. It made no mention of Lucasta. Poor old Lucasta – forever babbling about bulbs. Lucasta must have been distraught. She had doted on her father. Her life had revolved around him. Apparently Lucasta had been in love with Ria’s father all her life. She’d get the house and everything else, Ria supposed. Well, good luck to her. Ria didn’t really care. Uncle Henry had come up with the suggestion that Lucasta had actually poisoned Ria’s mother while nursing her, so that she could get into Toby’s bed. Uncle Henry was funny. Ria had rather liked him and from the way she’d caught him looking at her, she had no doubt he liked her too, though in a somewhat different way –
She smiled. Did she have a one-track mind? Was sex at the bottom of everything?
Had her father and Lucasta ever had any sex? It seemed an impossible thought. No, one simply couldn’t think of Lucasta in those terms. That marriage, like most late ones, was probably still unconsummated. Then another idea struck her. Could her father have actually lusted after her, Ria? That kind of thing did happen. Her father had dressed it all up in high morality and ethics and paternal love and concern for her welfare and good intentions and so on, but of course that was the kind of thing Lord Justice Leighton would do. Well, that would explain his obsession with her – the way he’d slapped her face – didn’t they say that violence was sublimated carnal desire?
That poem – she couldn’t get it out of her head.
Confound my carnal enemy,
Let my flesh not corrupted be –
Let my flesh not corrupted be. A little too late for that. She hadn’t had her orange juice. Leaping out of bed, she walked bare-footed across the room. It was a lovely room – all white – the most luxurious deep-pile white carpet – white modern furniture, which had come from Sweden – everything exactly as she liked it. She walked out into the hall. She twiddled her fingers in greeting at her radiant reflection in the oval silver-framed mirror that hung on the wall. She went into the sitting room and turned on the radio. There was an Italian music station she adored. Ciao Amore. Of course they would be playing love songs today. St Valentine’s. What a bore.
The kitchen was also white and fully fitted. New Millennium in snappy chrome letters shimmered on each cupboard as well as across the double-width fridge. Air-conditioning. Every possible gadget. A smoothie maker. A shining espresso machine. Kopi Luwak coffee. The most expensive coffee in the world, apparently. A pound of KL coffee cost three hundred dollars, Roman had informed her. Imports from Italy, Germany, the USA. Roman hadn’t stinted himself. One had to give him credit for that. A woman came and cleaned every day. ‘Anything you want. All you need to do is tell me,’ Roman had said.
She poured herself a glass of orange juice. Florida oranges. Roman too had orange juice in the morning. Sometimes when he was with her, they sat side by side, drinking orange juice out of tall crystal glasses. Sometimes they talked but more and more often they sat in companionable silence. As though they’d been married for ages. Darby and Joan. How depressing.
Was orange juice all they had in common? What else was there? Well, they hated Sarla and loved sex – they were good at it. Both had enjoyed the drag revue at Le Carousel in Paris. Both loved girls – funnily enough Roman didn’t mind her being with other girls – he liked to watch, though he said that once they were married that would have to stop. (He was funny.) Both had a weakness for expensive jewellery – Roman more than her, in fact – the way he decorated himself, like the maharajas of old, or like a tart. (It had made him angry, when she had said that – Roman didn’t have much of a sense of humour. He hated it when she teased him.) Both liked expensive scent. What else? They loved the sea. They went swimming together. Both enjoyed smoking hashish every now and then. (One of Roman’s ventures was the selling of hash and he used a customized Cartier cigarette case for his marijuana roll-ups.) Anything else? Well, they loved dancing. Was that a good enough foundation for a lasting relationship? For a lifetime together? She was twenty-four, Roman twenty-nine. They could have fifty-five years together.
Ria took a rice cake out of a jar, spread it lightly with manuka honey and bit into it thoughtfully. Fifty-five years with Roman? She feared she’d be bored. They didn’t have much to say to one another, really. She’d already started finding him tedious, if she had to be perfectly honest. Roman liked to talk about his enemies, what he’d done to them, what he wanted to do to them, or he told her how much he wished he could get to one of the Queen’s garden parties, or he boasted that he could buy himself a barony complete with a castle in Scotland, if he wished – an English solicitor had already explained to him the procedure in some detail.
A garden party. There would be a garden party at Coconut Grove later today, in honour of the old hag who had come from England. She was buying Coconut Grove from Roman. Ria was expected to put in an appearance at some point. Roman was terribly keen on her doing so. He wanted her to make a good impression. He insisted that she wear her floral dress and pearls, her Alice band and white elbow-length gloves, like some perfectly groomed deb out of an early 1950s Vogue cover. Quite different from an earlier fantasy of his. Ria smiled, remembering. Wouldn’t it be fun if she were to appear at the garden party wearing the black bustier, garter belt, fishnet stockings and snakeskin stiletto heels?
Roman wanted the old hag to like her – the Honourable Mrs Depleche. He said he hoped Ria and Mrs Depleche would be ‘friends’. He seemed to envisage Mrs Depleche in the part of Ria’s chaperone. The elderly duenna and the young ward. Totally pointless, inexpressibly bizarre.
Roman seemed to hanker after some kind of aristocratic Arcadia. The truth was that he was twitchy about social status, which, exasperatingly, eluded his otherwise cocksure purchasing power. She meant of course social status in the ‘English’ sense. She kept telling him England was completely different from what he imagined it to be, but he didn’t seem to believe her. Well, he got all his ideas about English high society from ‘society’ novels of the 1920s and 1930s – he’d found a boxful of those somewhere – the kind of trashy novelettes shop-girls had read once.
She didn’t feel the slightest inclination to grace Roman’s garden party. She didn’t feel like meeting any English people, particularly not the kind of English people who might know her father. ‘Marigold Leighton? I wonder now – aren’t you poor Toby’s gel? We heard something. I am sure we got it all wrong. Fancy bumping into you here, of all places . . .’ No, she definitely did not want to go – but Roman would be furious if she didn’t. They’d have a row. She couldn’t bear the thought of another row.
Ria sighed. To think that when they had first met, she had considered him the best specimen of his kind – exciting, vigorous, dangerously sexy. Unlike any other man she had been with. She’d considered Roman the very personification of va-va-voom. Full of testosterone-fuel
led bounce. She’d had a name for him: Tigger! (She remembered how she’d always said she’d marry Tigger.) Sadly, the novelty had worn off. He had revealed himself as petty and petulant, possessive, given to violent jealous rages – same as her father, in fact. He had also started putting on weight and was no longer anything like Tigger – and, goodness, he talked so much rubbish. Still, he had money. Money was important. If she played her cards well, she could have it both ways. She could have – fun. She needed to be extremely careful though –
That boy would be there, she suddenly realized – at the party. She held her breath. He’d be serving the drinks or proffering canapés. Now, was that a good thing or a bad thing? Part of her wanted to see him – very much – another part said, no, that would be total madness – he might give himself away – in fact he was bound to give himself away, the silly young fool – the way he gazed and gawped at her! Roman or his henchmen would be sure to notice. Sometimes Roman ‘noticed’ things that weren’t there. He was paranoid. He didn’t like it when she smiled at people. He’d already accused her of ‘flirting’. He didn’t trust her. I gave commands, Then all smiles stopped. Ria shivered. She’d actually found ‘My Last Duchess’ wonderfully creepy when they did it at school.
4.Little Victim Page 5