My Life in Black and White

by Kim Izzo

  Niall did as I asked, and when he was safely out of sight, I opened the door.

  “It was neighbourhood kids selling papers,” I explained. Dean walked down towards me with his coat and hat on. He grasped my chin in his hand and kissed me again. My mouth felt cold against his. I could still taste Niall.

  “You don’t have to answer me tonight,” he repeated. “But I’m going to end things with Amber and move into my own room at The Savoy.”

  He lifted his head and stroked my face with his right hand.

  “Goodnight, Clara.”

  “Goodnight, Dean.”

  I watched him slump away into the fog. From behind me came the scraping of Niall’s shoes on the damp pavement. He popped his head over my shoulder.

  “Goodnight, Dean,” he repeated and waved at the fog.

  “Oh, shut up,” I said and went upstairs. He followed. I didn’t stop him, but I didn’t want to encourage anything either.

  “I’m in no mood for romance,” I said sharply. “If you think we’re sleeping together again.”

  “Hush,” he cut me off. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Before I could answer, there came another loud bang on the door.

  “Again? What is this? A flophouse for cheating husbands?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Says you,” I answered. “Stay here. Maybe Dean forgot something.”

  I went downstairs for the third time that night and without hesitation swung open the door. He stood there grinning like he was giving me a cheque for a million bucks. From where I stood, it felt like someone had tied a noose around my neck and cinched it tight.

  “Good evening, Clara. It’s time for our getaway. I’ve been longing to show you my country place.”

  It was Frederick Marshall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Breathing wasn’t an option; the wind was knocked out of me and I hadn’t even been socked in the gut. Frederick eyeballed me for a moment, then laughed like we were playing a scene from one of his screwball comedies, only I wasn’t in on the joke.

  “You never mentioned we were going to your country house,” I said, immediately fearing the worst. Only a madman would play such a game.

  “You look frightened, my dear,” he chuckled. “I can’t understand why you’re surprised. Where else would we go?”

  “Tonight’s been full of surprises,” I said, trying to think fast but coming up empty. “Dean came to see me, for starters.” A sound overhead caught my attention, like a window being thrust open. It must have caught Frederick’s ear too, for he stepped back and looked up at the building. Thankfully, the fog was too thick for him to see what was probably Niall listening in. Giving up on finding anything amiss, Frederick fixed those small black eyes of his on me. I decided to give staring back a try.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was pregnant that day at The Ten Bells?” I asked bluntly.

  He shrugged as though he had neglected to inform me that Amber wasn’t a real blonde.

  “What difference would that have made to you? I told her she had to fix her condition or else she’d lose the part. It wasn’t difficult to convince her that being such a young mother would ruin her career. Young girls are easy to handle that way.”

  “So you are to blame. If it had been her choice, that’s one thing. But to practically force her. You disgust me,” I seethed.

  “I wouldn’t judge me too harshly. It wasn’t much of a discussion. I told you once before, she knows how to play the game.”

  “I assume by playing the game you mean you’re sleeping with her?” I asked, hoping it was true and that he’d lost interest in that part of the deal.

  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “In any event, I thought you’d be happy about Amber moving on. I wouldn’t be surprised if that man came crawling back to you,” he paused and gave me the once-over again. “By your manner, I’d say he already has.” He smiled. “Not to fear, I will have you back in your husband’s arms before you know it. Mind you, you never know, you may prefer me to him.”

  He stepped down onto the sidewalk and looked up at the house again. I kept my eyes focused on him.

  “Why should I come with you?” I said abruptly. He stepped back onto the landing and thrust his gaunt face into mine.

  “Why must I constantly remind you?” he asked impatiently. “I always get what I want. Photos. Redheads. Photos of redheads.” Then he chuckled again.

  I should have told him then and there that the pictures didn’t exist and ended the charade. I didn’t want to end up like Larry or, worse, Mica. But now was not the time to revert to reliable and predictable Clara Bishop.

  “What about the screen test? My friend’s part; you didn’t keep your side of the bargain.”

  “Oh, not that again.” He spoke like he was bored.

  “You have no plans to cast her in the film, do you? You let me think you did, but you lied,” I accused him.

  “You’re taking all the fun out of our weekend,” he said, deadpan. “Now go get the damn photographs and get in the car, or else I’ll come upstairs and look for them myself. And that won’t be anywhere near as fun.”

  Something was keeping him from barging into the flat and turning it upside down. I couldn’t put my finger on what, but it gave me hope that there was still room for negotiation.

  “Photographs for a screenplay,” I said abruptly.

  It got his attention.

  “What was that?”

  “I will come with you, and I will bring the photographs, but we need a new arrangement,” I said as calmly as I could. “I have a script. It’s a film noir. I want you to read it and produce it.”

  “You disappoint me, Clara. After all the pleasure we’ve had playing our little chess game, you are only after a screen credit. Typical and predictable.”

  I recoiled at the word “predictable.” If only he knew how untrue that was.

  “It’s a great script. Alicia Steele and I wrote it together. It’s called The Woman Scorned.”

  He frowned. “Why does that sound familiar?” Then he raised his chin and studied me.

  “Fine. Give me your script.” Then he stroked my hair, like he had that night at The Savoy. “I don’t know if you’re Lucrezia Borgia or Donna Reed. But I’m longing to find out.”

  “I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” I said dryly.

  “Indeed. It’s all part and parcel of the seduction.”

  I pulled my head back so that his fingers were no longer in my hair.

  “You should know, the script’s not finished,” I said.

  “You’re giving a producer an unfinished script?” He seemed insulted, which made me smile.

  “I’m not sure how it should end,” I said truthfully but tried to sound wry.

  He rolled his eyes. “My car is still running,” he whispered. “Go upstairs and get the photos and the script. I won’t ask a second time.”

  “But I haven’t packed,” I whispered back, thinking of Niall upstairs.

  “You don’t need anything where you’re going,” he said ominously. “I’ve taken care of everything.”

  “I need my handbag,” I said firmly.

  “You don’t need money.”

  “But I do need lipstick,” I said. This made him laugh again.

  “A woman always needs to look glamorous.” He smiled. “You have one minute. Don’t make me come and get you,” he said, the smile gone from his face. I flew up the steps and into Niall’s arms. He had been listening by the window and heard everything.

  “What have you got yourself into, Clara! You can’t go with him,” he insisted. “I won’t let you. It’s madness. It’s obvious he’s threatening you, and for what? Photographs that don’t exist?”

  “I don’t want to go with Frederick,” I admitted. “But I have to. You would never understand why.”

  “Let’s confront the bas
tard together. Straighten out this whole mess.”

  I smiled faintly. “It’s my mess and only I can straighten it out.” There was no way I could tell him about my grandmother—that I would do anything, even sleep with Frederick, to save her.

  I checked the clock. I’d been longer than a minute and knew that any second Frederick would be banging on the door. I picked up the script and my handbag. Checked that my lipstick was inside in case Frederick got nosy, and headed to the door. Niall tried to block me.

  “You can’t go. I’m going downstairs to tell him,” he announced and made for the door.

  I beat him to it and grabbed the doorknob. “No, Niall. I have to do this my way.”

  He was much stronger than me, and it took everything I had to stop him from opening the door enough to slip through it. It was a tug-of-war until out of the blue the typewriter keys began to click away. And this time I wasn’t the only one who heard it.

  “What’s that?” he said. Distracted, I turned and released my hold on the doorknob, and the door flew open at him and he was knocked out cold, crashing to the floor in a giant heap. The typewriter went silent.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I said, then bent down to make sure he was still breathing. He was. I kissed his cheek and stepped over him and down the steps to Frederick’s waiting car. He smiled at me like we were on a date.

  “This fog puts me in a romantic mood. In fact, I’m craving a midnight swim. How about you?”

  Police Station—Cirencester

  I held my lower lip between my teeth and bit down till it hurt. Sergeant Hooper was staring at me.

  “You sure you want to hear the rest? You must be bored,” I suggested hopefully. “We’ve been shut up in here nearly the whole day.”

  “It’s my job, listening to stories.”

  “So I shouldn’t expect to leave any time soon?”

  He shook his head. Between the black and white vision, time travel, assault and blackmail, I didn’t stand much of a chance. “Frederick Marshall isn’t the kind of man I thought he was,” he said. “But I haven’t heard enough to lock him up. On the other hand, when it comes to you, Miss Bishop, I’ve got pages.”

  I smiled. “Call me Clara.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  He drove the car like it was a sunny summer day on a racetrack and it terrified me. The smog hadn’t abated, and each turn and curve proved one step closer to killing someone or being killed.

  “Slow down!” I cried. “You can’t see where you’re going. We could hit someone.”

  “Don’t fret!” he shouted over the engine’s roar. “This is fun for me. Relax and enjoy the thrill of being out of control. Wait until we drive by the cliffs!”

  “Cliffs!” I yelped. I checked my watch; it was nearly midnight on December 9. One day away from losing my grandmother once again and yet here I was veering closer and closer to a similar catastrophe. I closed my eyes briefly but it only frightened me more.

  We left London behind, and the drive through the countryside was a blur of grey and shadow. The car headlights barely cut through the fog.

  I sat curled up against the door as far from Frederick as I could get without falling to my death. He didn’t speak for the remainder of the drive. He stared ahead with a vacant expression, his fingers clutching the steering wheel tightly so that the bones of his knuckles gleamed white. He had me where he wanted me and there was nothing I could do. As the car tore along the country roads, I thought of my grandmother. She was out there in Los Angeles. A city I remembered in Technicolor reds, yellows, greens and blues. If I succeeded in saving her life, would my own be altered in the future? One thing was clear; I didn’t see Dean with me. I finally saw him for his true self. Reliving the last few weeks, past, present and future, he was a heel. A self-absorbed, arrogant heel. And I could do better. In fact, as we careened through tight turns and roundabouts and narrow roads with sky-high hedges, the only man I wanted near me was Niall. I hoped he was okay. I felt bad leaving him lying there. I knew Trinity would find him when she returned. The bodies were piling up all right. I was in over my head. Or I had lost my mind and was totally bonkers. Trinity had been right. I was someone else’s creation. I was Alicia Steele’s femme fatale Frankenstein. And I knew what lay ahead wasn’t going to be a happy ending. What was I thinking writing a film noir from her point of view? A femme fatale is no damsel in distress; she’s wicked and despised.

  It was getting colder with each mile. I drew a blanket around my shoulders. It was a check pattern. Damn black and white vision! Who knew what colour anything was.

  We turned up a very rough road that was framed on either side by giant oak trees with boughs so low they seemed to want to shake hands. I ducked to avoid a beating. Then suddenly there were lights in front of us, and as we drew near, I saw with a start what looked like a castle. It was made up of odd angles and sharp points with small narrow windows, hundreds of them it seemed, and an enormous black door that resembled a giant gaping mouth set to devour its guests. It was the kind of place that Frankenstein, even a femme fatale version, would have; it was ghastly and, naturally, it was Frederick’s country manor.

  The car screeched to a halt on the gravel and Frederick yanked the parking brake up.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said proudly.

  “What do you call it? Xanadu?” I asked tersely. He was a filmmaker; surely he’d seen Citizen Kane a few dozen times.

  He laughed for real, a good-natured guffaw. This unnerved me even more. He got out of the car, and I waited for him to come around and open my door. For an instant, I considered dashing away into that crazy oak forest we drove through, but I’d seen enough Hammer horror films to know how that might end up. Even out in the middle of nowhere I was as trapped as I would be in a jail cell. I stepped out of the car. My legs felt weak.

  Frederick walked up the stone steps. He didn’t even look over his shoulder because he knew I’d follow him. As we moved through the mist, a trace of an odour caught my nostrils. It was familiar, though slightly different from what I was used to. The saltiness was distinct, and I knew then that we were by the sea.

  “The ocean,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “The house sits on a cliff. You can see the sea crashing against the rocks below if you follow that path there.” He pointed into the darkness. There was no point trying to see a thing in the pea soup we were standing in. “I’ll take you there tomorrow. It’s beautiful.”

  “And dangerous,” I added. Just what I needed, a cliff.

  He frowned. “Yes, I suppose it is if you get too close. That doesn’t happen often.”

  “Often?” I asked nervously.

  He ignored me and turned the key in the lock. The giant black door rattled and screeched open as if it hadn’t been disturbed in decades. I wanted to suggest he buy some WD-40 but realized it hadn’t been invented yet. It seemed to take all his strength to push it.

  “Butler’s night off?” I asked sarcastically.

  “As a matter of fact, it’s his weekend off,” he answered snidely.

  The door fully ajar, I followed him inside. The foyer resembled a mausoleum and was flanked by two towering columns with a grand staircase that wound up to another storey. It really was a castle. The floor and columns were made of rough and uneven stone. It was cold and drafty too. The only light came from a few small table lamps, while a giant chandelier loomed impotently overhead, its bulbs dark and useless.

  “That doesn’t work?” I asked and pointed to it.

  “Of course, give me a moment,” he said and disappeared into another room. Within seconds the chandelier twinkled and shone, but its mangled curves and spiky shards of glass gave it a Gothic air that might have been impressive if it wasn’t so ominous. I swallowed hard. He returned looking pleased with himself.

  “Nice pile of bricks,” I lied politely but noticed my feet wouldn’t budge. I was crippled with fear.

  “I will pour us some champagne,” Frederick said, leering at me. My
dress was fitted in all the right places. Funny how “all the right places” in certain circumstances can be all the wrong places at the same time. “I’ll get it from the cellar. Go into the sitting room and wait for me.”

  “Can you give me a map?” I said tartly.

  He smiled. “You are a wit.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s down that hall, first door on your left. The butler should have left a lamp on. I will join you in a moment and light a fire.”

  He vanished down a hall on the opposite side of the house. I shuddered again and, looking down at my frozen feet, willed them to move. They did. I had taken one step on the stone floor when I heard a woman scream.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  My head instinctively jerked in the direction of the scream. Not surprisingly, it was the same direction that Frederick had gone. I knew better than to investigate such matters alone, so I remained where I was, aware that my feet had refrozen to the stone beneath them. I waited for more screams. My heart was thundering in my chest as I thought irrationally that perhaps Mica was either still alive like Rochester’s lunatic wife in the attic or else she was haunting the joint. Then I heard a loud crash, more of a smash really, and that was enough to get me moving. I was at the door in a flash, but it took all of my strength to pry the giant blockade even a few inches, not enough to squeeze through. I kept clawing at it, and stuck my foot in the crack to force it open. Then without any warning it flew open with such impact that it sent me tumbling to the floor.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Frederick stood on the threshold towering over me, a suitcase in his hand, his hat askew and his tie and shirt rumpled like he’d been attacked.

  “How many of you are there?” I asked pointedly and rubbed my neck.

  Frederick grimaced and offered his hand to help me to my feet. “I’m the one and only. I went through the servants’ entrance to get this,” he said and, putting his suitcase on the floor, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.