Walking in Darkness

‘How do you feel?’

The voice came from right beside her and she started, opening her eyes to find herself lying flat, with a warm woollen tartan rug over her. Above her a face glowed in the firelight, soft-skinned, with wide eyes and curling dark hair.

Mamma! she wanted to say. The name came instantly to her lips but was not spoken because even as she thought it she knew that this was not her mother, this was Anya, and she remembered everything. It all came back with a rush and made her dizzy again. She couldn’t believe that at last she was seeing her sister, that it was all true, Anya was alive and so strikingly like their mother that Sophie couldn’t stop staring at her. If she had had any doubts at all about their mother’s story, they had all dissolved. There was no shred of doubt anywhere. This was her sister, this was Anya, and she was no longer an outsider in her mother’s new family, she was no longer alone, she had Anya now, even if Anya did not yet know it.

Anya might reject her. She could see that Anya was disturbed by her, thought her crazy, perhaps? And rationally, Sophie couldn’t blame her.

‘I’d offer you some brandy, but I’m not sure if I should give you alcohol, there’s some water here, if you want it. That can’t hurt you,’ said the strangely American voice which should have been like her own, or like their mother’s.

‘Please,’ she whispered, and watched her sister pick up a glass of water which looked so clear and cool her mouth thirsted for it as if she had been lost in a desert and had not drunk for days.

Cathy slid a hand under her neck and lifted her head, held the glass to her mouth; Sophie swallowed and the water flowed down her throat. Cathy lowered her again and sat down on the carpet beside the couch, her knees, in their sleek grey jersey wool trousers, bent up and her arms curled around them, hands clasped, her chin on top of them, staring at Sophie.

‘When you fainted I wasn’t sure what to do, so I brought you here, to my home. You didn’t seem to have any serious injuries, and the nearest hospital is a very long drive away. I’ve sent for our doctor. He’ll be able to tell us if you need hospital treatment.’

‘I don’t think I’m badly hurt,’ Sophie said, sitting up warily to test that.

Cathy at once said sharply, ‘Be careful! You ought to lie down until the doctor has seen you.’

‘I’m not in any pain.’ Sophie felt her arms and legs gingerly. ‘No, no bones broken. A few bruises where the car hit me, or where I fell, but I expect I’m more shocked than hurt.’

‘All the same you shouldn’t move. Shock can be pretty devastating.’

‘Yes.’ Sophie lay down again and looked around the room, curious about her sister’s home. Large, furnished with what she recognized as antiques, yet comfortable, a family room with a very lived-in sense. The couch was arranged in front of a huge stone fireplace which was big enough for several people to stand inside. There was a black iron basket in the centre of it, holding the great log fire which gave the room so much heat and light, scenting the air with pine, crackling as resin ran from the wood and exploded in the heat with sparks flying up the great, blackened chimney.

Sophie shivered suddenly, staring into the heart of the fire and remembering.

‘Don’t think about it!’ Cathy Brougham said sharply, tuning into her thoughts. ‘Try not to think at all.’

Sophie laughed shakily. Above it a gold clock in a glass case chimed the hour; Sophie counted the chimes and couldn’t believe that it was already five o’clock. It had been morning when she left the hotel; the journey here had taken longer than she had ever guessed it might. She hoped Steve had got her message or he would be worried, finding her missing. Would the hotel remember to give it to him?

‘Would you like some coffee or tea?’ suggested Cathy.

‘Coffee would be good,’ Sophie whispered.

Cathy went to a table to pick up a telephone, pressed a button. ‘Could we have a pot of coffee and some biscuits?’ she asked whoever answered. ‘Thank you. No, nothing else.’

A wood-block floor gleamed in the firelight, reflecting the silver photograph frames displayed on tables, the faces in them all unknown to her except those which showed Anya, reflecting two glass vases of winter flowers, white and gold chrysanthemums, a row of dark family portraits hung on the panelled walls. Were those the ancestors of Anya’s husband, Paul Brougham? Here and there the floor was laid with rugs, dark red and black, their patterns ritualized, the wavy lines representing water, the triangles trees; that much she knew from once attending a sale of rugs in London a year or so ago.

Sitting on the floor, Cathy Brougham watched Sophie, wondering what she was thinking. Who on earth was she? She was beautiful, her blonde hair silky, her skin smooth, even if it had a worrying pallor. Had the car crash put that haunted, almost hunted look in her blue eyes? Had the black car been trying to hit her? What was she doing here? Why had she rung up earlier, and asked if she was Anya – why did she keep calling her Anya? Who was Anya?

Cathy remembered the crash again, the explosion, the flames. Her heart raced with shock and disbelief.

‘That car tried to run you down, didn’t it?’ she broke out and Sophie started, and looked at her, unable to hide the fear she felt.

‘You saw?’

‘I saw the car driving straight at you. In my headlights. I saw clearly what was happening. Before the car went into a spin and crashed.’

‘Did you see who was driving?’

‘There wasn’t time and it was too dark, anyway. But there was just one person in the car, and I had a feeling it was a woman.’

Sophie’s chest squeezed agonizingly. ‘Yes, I thought it was too.’ Her voice sounded like dead leaves blowing down a gutter, whispering, faint.

Cathy stared fixedly at her. ‘You know why she was trying to kill you, don’t you? Why? Who was she? Come to that, who are you? What’s this all about? And who is Anya?’

Sophie looked around wildly. ‘My bag. Where’s my bag? I had it with me when that car hit me, I know I did . . .’