In the Still of the Night

Which was the real woman? Or was she a

ll of them? Or none of them?

She acted a part all the time, on the screen and off. The public thought they knew her, but they were wrong. Nobody really knew her, except him. He knew her more intimately than anyone in the world.

She couldn’t hide from him; he was inside her head. He had thought about her all these years until he was under her skin, a red corpuscle in her blood, so much a part of her that no surgeon’s knife could cut him out.

She knew; he had made sure she never forgot him – he was sure she looked over her shoulder all the time in case he was behind her, she listened for his voice every time she picked up a phone, she was waiting with terror for him, especially since she woke up to find that rose on her pillow, the Valentine’s card beside her bed.

He wished he could have seen her face. Ever since that morning she must be on the rack, wondering what he would do next, when he would come for her.

The joke was that he was always there, she simply hadn’t recognised him. She wasn’t the only one who could act a part, deceive people. He could do it too; could walk the streets and not be recognised. It was amazing how little people used their eyes, how much they missed.

He looked at the picture of Annie half-naked and breathed thickly, God, she was beautiful; he thought of all the things he wanted to do to her, would do to her, soon, very soon. But she had betrayed him; she had made him suffer. She had to suffer too. She had to be punished for what she had done to him, and then he would finally have her.

Trudie was asleep when Annie got to the hospital. ‘She’s fine,’ the ward sister said. ‘It’s the drugs she has to keep the pain down, they make her sleep a lot, and that’s good for her, at the moment. She’s doing well, don’t worry.’

Annie stood by the bed looking at the frail, workworn hands, the gaunt face. Her mother looked small, like a child, in the bed; she had shrunk overnight. Annie sat down beside the bed and held those tired hands for a long time, stroking the backs of them with her thumbs.

She left the hospital at six thirty, took a taxi and arrived home just as Harriet drove up in Sean’s black Porsche.

Annie was taken aback, irritated at seeing them both – lately they seemed to be trying to take her over, run her life. But she hid her reaction, unlocked the front door and invited them both in. ‘I was going to make omelette fines herbes, with salad,’ she said. ‘I expect I could stretch it for three.’

‘I wasn’t muscling in on your evening,’ Sean said. ‘I just drove Harriet here – but I did want a word with you.’

‘Well, come in and have a drink, anyway,’ Annie said, leading the way into the house. She stood in the hall, with its scent of beeswax polish, the deep-toned sound of the nineteenth-century grandfather clock which her mother had inherited from her own father, and listened anxiously to the silence upstairs. Sean watched her, frowning.

‘I’ll just check upstairs, shall I?’ He must have picked up on her nervousness.

He ran upstairs, and Harriet gave her a sharp, curious look.

‘What’s going on, Annie? Oh, come on, I’m not stupid. It’s obvious something is up. You and Sean have secrets, you’re rowing all the time with Derek – if any of this can affect the series I ought to be warned.’

Annie sighed. ‘I was going to tell you this evening – that’s why I asked you over.’

Sean came back, taking the stairs two at a time. ‘All clear.’

Annie led the way into the sitting-room, and poured them both a drink.

‘How’s your mother?’ Sean asked, sitting down on a blue brocade couch and looking around the high-ceilinged room while Annie told him about her visit to the hospital. The décor was much as it had been all Annie’s life; Trudie hated changes, so the room had a curiously old-fashioned feel to it. The blue-striped wallpaper had been renewed in a similar pattern a few years back and the Axminster carpet had been on this floor as long as Annie could remember. On the long between-the-wars sideboard against one wall stood two dark blue Majolica vases with pale blue irises sculpted on their sides. They had been bought by Annie’s father years ago. Annie had always loved them; their deep colour had pleased her even as a child and since her father’s death they had meant even more to her. Every time she saw them she was reminded of him, of how safe he had made her feel when she was tiny, how he had often carried her on his back downstairs to breakfast, how he had let her help him fill the Majolica vases with spring flowers, yellow daffodils and tulips.

‘What a cosy room. It’s got that lovely lived-in feeling,’ Harriet said approvingly. ‘I like these old Edwardian houses, there’s so much space, with these big windows and high ceilings.’

As Annie smiled at her, Sean shifted impatiently. He was never interested in small talk. ‘Look, Annie,’ he said, ‘I talked to Marty Keats. It’s obvious she knows something. She says her husband is back in England, and I got the impression he was trying to get money out of her. I think she knows he’s threatening you. Annie, keep Harriet here tonight – tell her everything you told me. I’d feel a lot happier if you weren’t here alone.’

‘I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding or surrounding myself with people!’

‘You won’t have to. Just a few days. I’m going to arrange for someone to watch Marty Keats.’

‘You aren’t telling the police! Sean, I don’t want the police brought in to this!’

‘No, no, this is a private detective. He used to work with me at Blackfriars; now he’s gone private, and he’s very discreet. He’s a good friend of mine. I’d trust him with my life.’

She chewed her lower lip uncertainly. ‘But even if you do find Roger Keats, what can you do about him?’

‘Put the fear of God into him.’

Annie half wished she hadn’t confided in Sean. Her nerves were jumping like ants on a hot plate. How would Roger Keats react if Sean confronted him? She remembered his vicious fury after she reported him to the governors at the school. She’d been afraid he might actually kill her. She was still afraid of that – she had the feeling he was working up to it. He was like a cat playing with a cornered mouse. When he had got enough fun out of tormenting her, he would kill her.