Walking in Darkness

Gowrie pulled himself together. ‘Yes, sure, I’m fine. Let’s hear the Guildhall speech. I want to hear reactions, then the boys can rework it before we get to London.’

Sophie slept part of the way to London, dreaming fitfully, as she had ever since her mother told her Anya was alive, not dead. The dream was always the same. She walked in darkness, looking back over her shoulder, sometimes beginning to run, her heart beating until she felt it might burst out through her chest, and heard behind her breathing, running footsteps, yet whenever she looked round there was nobody there, just the night shadows of the lane behind her home, the lane leading to the church.

That lay just ahead of her, no light in the stained glass windows, the pale onion dome glowing and mysterious, like a strange moon fallen from the sky, and the yews in the graveyard showing her where Anya waited for her.

When she got there she knelt by the grave and looked at the stone above it. Papa’s name, Anya’s name written underneath.

‘Where are you, Anya?’ she whispered, and that was when it always happened – the arm coming up from the grave, the small, pale hand grabbing her, her terror, struggling to break free, screaming.

She woke up with a stifled cry and found Steve Colbourne leaning over her, concern in his eyes.

‘Did you have a nightmare? You were screaming – are you OK?’

She swallowed, fighting to shut the memory out. ‘Did I . . . make a noise?’ Her eyes moved, taking in the darkened cabin, the sleeping bodies on all sides, crumpled blankets roughly draped over them, heads slumped back or to one side, some of them snoring, one or two people still awake, in shirt-sleeves, a blanket draped over them, reading by an overhead light. Nobody looked back at her.

‘No,’ Steve said slowly, still watching her. ‘No, you were just moving about, breathing in a weird way, as if you were running, and your face was . . .’ He stopped and she bit her lip.

‘My face was what?’

‘Terrified,’ he said. ‘You are, aren’t you, Sophie? I wish to God you’d tell me what this is all about.’

She wished she could. But she couldn’t. Turning away, she closed her eyes again.

‘Don’t keep asking me. Go back to sleep.’ That was the last thing she wanted to do herself, though. She was afraid of sleeping now; afraid of the dream coming back. The night dragged on.

It was a bitter relief when the stewardess put on the lights and everyone sat up, grey-faced, yawned and stretched, went out to the lavatories, coming back washed and shaved, hair combed and brushed. The female passengers put on their make-up; men had changed their shirts and ties. Blankets were folded and put away.

The stewards made the rounds with a trolley loaded with newspapers, and gave out cups of tea or coffee. A smell of synthetic breakfast filled the aeroplane, making Sophie feel sick.

‘Sleep much?’ asked Steve, inhaling the fragrance of his coffee with closed eyes.

‘Not much.’ Sophie smiled at the stewardess, accepted orange juice and cornflakes, took a roll and some marmalade but rejected a cooked breakfast with a rueful shake of the head.

Flying back into London so soon after she had left gave her a sense of déjà vu. The last time she saw Heathrow it hadn’t entered her head that she might be back within such a short time; she had imagined it would be years before she returned. She had not known about Anya then. It was only when she flew home for a brief visit before going to the States that her mother told her the truth, a truth which still reverberated through Sophie’s life, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

Beside her she heard Steve take a sudden, sharp breath, felt his body stiffening, and looked round at him, but he was not looking at her. Face hard and wary, he was watching a woman who had walked down the aisle and was now standing beside them.

Startled, Sophie looked up, not recognizing the smoothly made-up face, dominated by heavy horn-rimmed spectacles which balanced the formidable jawline. Older than herself, around the late thirties or early forties, thought Sophie; dressed to impress businessmen rather than attract them, in a pin-striped masculine suit and white shirt with a dove-grey silk tie, and yet worn with very high black patent heels, like some secret sign of femininity in direct contradiction of the rest of her clothes.

‘Miss Narodni?’ From behind the hornrims cold eyes inspected Sophie and were clearly contemptuous of what they saw. Without waiting for her to reply, the woman held out an envelope. Sophie stared at it and saw long, graceful fingers whose nails were pearly, showing the pink skin beneath their highly buffed surfaces, without a touch of varnish.

Taking the envelope gingerly, as if it might explode, Sophie huskily asked, ‘What’s this?’ but the other woman had already turned on her heels and walked away.

‘Who was that?’ Sophie asked Steve, but had already guessed the answer before he gave it to her.

‘Gowrie’s secretary. The bionic woman. Scary, isn’t she?’ But he was looking at the envelope Sophie held. ‘Aren’t you going to open that?’

She felt it crackle between her fingers. A card? She tore it open while Steve watched and took out a stiffly embossed invitation card, stared at the gold lettering on it, not quite taking it in at first. Her own name had been written on to it, in black, confident handwriting.

Steve whistled. ‘Well, well – he’s sent you an invitation to the Guildhall dinner tomorrow night. Now I wonder why he’s done that?’

He watched Sophie’s face and saw that she wondered too. He was beginning to recognize certain expressions of hers, to know when she was scared or worried, and he was sure she was both at this moment.

They both suddenly became aware that someone else had halted beside their seats and was staring fixedly at the card Sophie held.

Steve gave the newcomer a dry smile. ‘Well, hello, Bross. How are you? Coming to Europe to keep an eye on Gowrie? They must be scared he might get his nose in front, right?’

‘I’m not working, I’m taking a break to London, visiting old buddies, seeing the sights, that’s all,’ the other man said, but he was looking at Sophie not Steve and his eyes were very sharp. She felt as if she was being X-rayed, his stare piercing her to the very backbone. ‘Introduce me,’ he said, still not even looking at Steve, and held out his large hand, the back of it rough with thick black hair.