Walking in Darkness

‘You . . . you’re . . . my father?’

He didn’t say anything, but his eyes told her the truth.

Steve caught her as she fainted, lifted her bodily into his arms, her head on his shoulder, his arm under her slack legs. He was barely conscious of her weight, he was too busy looking at her unconscious face, reading the pallor, the lines around mouth and eyes, and so worried about her he felt sick.

His ears buzzed with hypertension. He was beginning to guess but he didn’t want to believe his own intuition. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.

Poor Sophie, he thought, hasn’t she stood enough over the last week? One shock after another. Now this. And then another thought hit him like a knife in the guts. Oh, my God, Cathy; what will this do to her? His stomach began to churn as he took in all the implications. He had loved Cathy passionately once, she had hurt him when she dumped him for this man, but Steve had forgotten all that now. It was just part of the past, whereas his lifelong affection for the girl he had known most of her life had survived their love-affair and even been deepened by it. How on earth could she cope with a discovery like this?

Vladimir said, ‘Holy Virgin, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.’

‘So do I, damn you!’ Steve said with bitter force, moving away. Behind him the other men followed in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

Steve took Sophie through the first door he came to, into the elegant drawing-room, the calm formality of the room making an ironic setting for that moment. He laid her down on one of the silken brocade couches. She was already stirring, her lashes fluttering, her breath coming so lightly and shallowly that he could only just hear it. Steve slid a cushion under her head, knelt beside her, stroking her cold cheek with one finger, looking down at her compassionately.

She was beautiful and he had fancied her the minute he saw her, but his feelings for her now were deeper and far more complicated. Getting to know Sophie had been a helter-skelter ride these past few days, a mind-shattering experience. She had guts, this girl – he’d known plenty of men with less nerve than she had, less determination and tenacity, but she had had a tough time already. The strain of the past week must have eaten into her reserves, and now, just when she had managed to meet and get to know the sister she had come so far to find, now, just when Gowrie’s threat to her was neutralized, this had to hit her!

How the hell was she going to be able to cope with this too?

He looked round and saw Paul, stared at him with new eyes – this man was Pavel Narodni? He must be a damn sight older than he had seemed to be.

Paul met his eyes and turned away, walked across the room to a cabinet, got out a bottle of brandy, poured some into a tumbler and came back, holding it out to Steve.

‘Give her some of this.’

‘Good idea,’ Vladimir said. ‘I could do with one of those, myself, but a little more than a finger, please.’

Paul gave him an ironic, angry smile.

‘Help yourself.’

Vladimir came back with a large tumbler of brandy and swallowed a mouthful, sighing.

‘That’s better. Nothing like a good brandy to cure shock.’

Paul began to laugh hoarsely. ‘My God. Vladimir. It would be you, wouldn’t it? You were always a gadfly, buzzing around into every cesspit . . . but I never expected it to be you who would break my cover.’

Vlad nursed his tumbler of brandy, staring. He asked curiously, ‘You mean nobody ever recognized you until now? You’ve been very lucky.’

‘Very,’ agreed Paul. ‘I knew that some day someone would turn up, I was prepared to have to deal with it, but why is it you, of all people? For years I expected it every day, but it never came, and I suppose I forgot, in the end, that I was living on borrowed time.’

Rapid footsteps crossed the hall, then Gowrie wal

ked into the room. ‘What was all that shouting about? For Christ’s sake, what is going on now, Paul?’

Paul looked at him with deadly calm. ‘I’m not Paul Brougham. My name is Pavel Narodni.’

Gowrie, mouth open, like a fish stranded out of water, breathed noisily, staring at Paul.

‘What?’

‘My God, you’ve changed, Pavel,’ Vladimir said.

‘I don’t understand . . . what are you talking about?’ Gowrie sounded almost demented. ‘Are you trying to tell me . . . you can’t be him, he’s dead, he’s been dead nearly thirty years. Pavel Narodni was Cathy’s . . . her real . . . father. What are you trying to pull?’

Paul’s lips curled. ‘The reports of my death were much exaggerated, as your Mark Twain once said.’

Gowrie staggered to a chair against the wall and sat down, looking as if he had been pole-axed. He had aged visibly; his face had fallen in on his bones, his eyes sunk into his head. Nobody now would think he looked strong enough, fit enough, to become president.