Walking in Darkness

While she was in that room and he was up there on that platform talking she had watched him and thought: who would believe the truth about him, if she told anyone? She found it hard to believe herself.

But one thing was certain and they both knew it. If anyone found out what he had done it would blow his career sky-high, let alone ruin his private life. That powerful father-in-law would never forgive him. All that money, all that power, would be taken away from him. He would lose everything. Could she do that to him?

How much did Mrs Gowrie know, or guess? And Catherine Gowrie, how would she feel? The shock of the truth would destroy the landscape of Catherine’s whole life. How would she feel, when she heard? How would all his friends, his colleagues react? Not Don Gowrie, they would think, remembering that profile, as noble and assured as the head of a Roman emperor on a thin, beaten silver coin. He wouldn’t lie, cheat, conspire to deceive people who trusted him.

Sophie’s mouth quivered angrily. Oh, but he would, he would, and it was time everyone knew the truth about him.

The waiter brought their drinks, making a big thing of placing them on the coasters, the supple bend of his body closer to her than was strictly necessary so that she picked up on his musky scent. ‘Enjoy,’ he said huskily, looking at her through his long dark lashes.

The TV reporter gave him a cold stare and the waiter sneered before sauntering away again, very slowly.

‘What’s it like, getting that all the time?’ Steve Colbourne asked her. ‘I’ve often wondered how women cope with men always coming on to them.’

Sophie was startled by the question. Drily she asked, ‘You never come on to women, I suppose?’

He grinned. ‘Oh, yes, but I hope I’m never crude or pushy.’

‘Have you got a girlfriend? Have you ever asked her that question?’

His face changed, his voice grew terse. ‘I’m not dating anyone just now, no. You still haven’t answered my question.’

Had he just broken up with his woman? she wondered. Or was she just imagining that look of pain?

‘Oh, you get used to handling men’s come-ons,’ she said aloud.

‘Without slapping their faces?’

She laughed. ‘That sometimes just encourages them. They think of a slap as a come-on.’

He gave her a sidelong glance, smiling with teasing amusement. ‘I’m glad to see you have a sense of humour – you didn’t seem human enough for that.’

‘Thanks!’ she said, bristling. ‘You may get a slap yourself, any minute, if you keep up remarks like that.’

He grinned at her. ‘Sorry. Tell me, what sort of outfit do you work for? This agency – is it a big one, is it independent, or government-run?’

Well, at least she could talk freely about her work; there couldn’t be any risk in that. ‘It’s independent, founded in 1990, on a shoestring, with no capital but his brains and determination, by a Czech journalist, Vladimir Sturn.’ Her voice warmed and she smiled, thinking of Vlad, a fast-talking old reporter, half-pickled in vodka after years of hanging around bars listening to gossip and whispered secrets.

He looked more like a walrus than a man, a huge, wrinkled face, mournful round eyes, a great rubbery nose above a bushy moustache, usually sprinkled with ash from the cigars he smoked all the time.

His heavy clumsy body rolled from side to side as he walked, as if he was not used to life on dry land, his hands were great paws covered in dark hair, his laughter was a rough salty bark. He was the first and only real friend Sophie had ever had; she loved him dearly and so did most people who worked for or with him.

‘For the first few months he ran it singlehandedly – he couldn’t afford to pay anyone else. He sat in his flat, which was his office, too, scouring foreign newspapers, listening to foreign radio stations, picking up stories he could translate into English and sell to Czech newspapers, radio, TV. He’d spent most of his career working for the state press agency; he always says he doesn’t know how he stayed sane, writing lies, knowing the truth but never being able to print it or talk about it on the air. During the time Dubcek was First Secretary and everyone began to feel free to talk openly things got much better, but then . . .’ She stopped, shrugging, because even now it felt odd to say the truth out loud, to say what you really thought or felt.

‘Then the Russians invaded, in 1968,’ Steve prompted, watching her.

‘The year I was born,’ she said, smiling.

‘Really?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘Not good timing.’

‘That’s exactly what Vlad said when he first saw my date of birth. My God, he said, what a year to pick to be born!’ Vlad had given a roar of laughter then, adding, ‘I have to be worried about your timing, darling.’ Then he had sobered and told her how he had felt the night the Russians invaded; the first disbelief, because none of them had believed the Russians would do it, then the panic and chaos, and then the clampdown which muzzled the press throughout the country. Everything was shut down, press, radio stations and TV, so that Vlad and his colleagues had sat there all night, helpless and gagged, while Russian tanks rolled inexorably towards Prague.

‘I’m always grateful I never had to live under Communism,’ Steve said, frowning into his drink. ‘How do people cope with all that tension?’

‘Fear becomes a way of life,’ she said soberly. They were only now slowly beginning to trust in freedom, to believe they were safe in saying what they really thought.

‘I guess,’ Steve nodded, watching her face and fascinated by the expressions passing over it. The more he looked at her the less he could believe she had ever been Gowrie’s mistress. ‘So when did you join this agency?’

‘I worked for Vlad part-time, doing translation, while I was at college. I did a modern languages degree and Vlad was always short of people who could read French and Italian – a lot of people in our country speak German and Russian, we’ve been forced to learn both, in the past, for obvious reasons. When your country is occupied by foreigners you soon realise you have to learn their