Walking in Darkness

From his teens Steve had been out on the hoof, stuffing campaign messages into letter boxes, selling party newspapers, acting as a steward at local meetings, listening in on late-night drinking sessions where his father and various other local party bigwigs talked more freely than they ever would in public. He was disillusioned before he was twenty, and nothing he had seen since had changed his view of politicians.

His father had looked at him reproachfully, rather than angrily. ‘I’ve never got my hands dirty, Steve.’

‘No, of course not,’ Steve had hurriedly agreed, his voice soothing, then went on, ‘But you’ve had to turn a blind eye to a lot of stuff you didn’t really approve of, Dad. We both know that.’ Then he had leaned over to pat his father’s shoulder. ‘Dad, don’t look that way. In the real world we all have to live with what we don’t like. I do, myself – there’s corruption and sleaze enough in TV, God knows. But at least nobody pretends to be perfect. It’s hypocrisy I can’t stand; all the sanctimonious humbug.’

From the doorway his mother had asked sharply, ‘What are you talking about? I thought I told you no politics? Your father mustn’t overdo things, he isn’t out of the wood yet. Time he took his nap now, anyway. I’ve just made some coffee and hot muffins, Steve. Come back downstairs.’

She came over and made a fuss of tucking a warm patchwork quilt around his father, as if he was a child, adjusting his pillows, pulling down the blind to shut out the noonday sun, stroking back his thinning grey hair and smiling down at him maternally.

‘Now, you get some sleep, you hear?’

‘She finally got what she wanted, son,’ his father had complained. ‘I’m at her mercy, helpless as a newborn babe. Talk about politicians wanting power! It’s women who’re power-hungry, they’re control freaks, every last one of them.’

‘You hush,’ Marcia Colbourne said indulgently, bending to kiss his forehead before she walked quietly back out of the room, taking Steve with her.

When she got him alone in the kitchen, she turned on him angrily. ‘I won’t tell you again, Steve! He may look as if he’s back to normal, but he’s still recovering, a

nd I don’t want him upset. Keep off the subject of politics. Talk to him about books, or the garden, or music, but no politics! And don’t ever let me hear you lecturing your father again.’

Steve had been taken aback, his face flushing. His mother rarely raised her voice but when she did you knew you were really in the doghouse. ‘Sorry,’ he had muttered, and meant it. ‘I didn’t think. Stupid of me.’

‘Yes, it was,’ she had said, but, relenting, had poured him strong black coffee and put out a plate of blueberry muffins, his favourites, especially when his mother had made them. She was the best cook he knew; she didn’t cook fussy food, only went for simple dishes, usually traditional New England fare, with home-grown herbs and vegetables, cooked perfectly. Her chowder was something to dream about and her fish melted in your mouth.

Marcia Colbourne still had the looks that had made Fred Colbourne fall for her thirty-six years ago. Until you got close to her you would never believe she was fifty-five; her skin had a smooth texture that made her look half her age, and her dark hair showed just a little elegant grey here and there.

She was as traditional in the way she dressed as she was in her cooking: in winter she wore soft pastel lambswool sweaters with pearls, in the English style, with tweed skirts; in summer she wore Laura Ashley dresses that gave her a cool, understated elegance. Slim, hyperactive, she was always on the move, cooking, working in the house, gardening, swimming, walking the beach in all weathers to hunt for bare, silvery driftwood for her famous flower arrangements.

Her artistic streak came out in many ways: she embroidered tablecloths and traycloths, made tapestry firescreens, painted delicate watercolours, especially of the coast around their home, and when Steve and his sister, Sally, were kids the family often took their summer vacation at the Blackwater wildlife refuge, some twenty miles away, to sail and fish and watch birds, while their mother painted the flocks of water fowl you saw there. Steve associated those holidays with a sense of freedom, a smell of the sea, of fish they caught themselves, cooking over a makeshift barbecue on the sand while his mother threw together a salad with a dressing of lemon juice and a little olive oil.

Staring out of the cab window, Steve came back to the present with a start, realizing they had arrived in the overcrowded multi-ethnic neighbourhood of the Lower East Side, where wave after wave of new immigrants had come to rest over the years: Jews and Italians, Chinese and Poles, all washing together in a colourful mix which filled these grey streets with terrific restaurants, shops which gave off a powerful foreign smell, local markets selling everything from French cheeses to Russian icons, Polish handmade leather shoes to Chinese herbal medicines.

The cab pulled up outside a high apartment building among a row of others. After paying off the driver, Steve stood on the sidewalk, looking around in fast-falling twilight, catching sight of the East River, a bluish slate smudge between the close-set buildings opposite. You were never far from water on Manhattan: on the West Side of the city ran the Hudson, leading out eventually to the Atlantic, while the East River linked up the Atlantic with Long Island Sound.

Traffic churned past. Many shops were still open, he saw a handful of people waiting to be served at a stall selling green bananas, tied bundles of lemon grass, round bronze onions and aubergines, the colours of the vegetables still sharp in the fading light. Steve suddenly felt hungry, realising he hadn’t eaten a proper meal for a day or so. He had had coffee and orange juice for breakfast, a sandwich at lunchtime, nothing in between. He threw a glance up at the freshly painted terracotta façade of the building behind him. Iron fire-escapes gave the row of buildings a skeletal structure. Now at twilight they cast elaborate shadows on the painted walls behind them. Which floor did she live on? With his luck it would probably turn out to be the top, and there would be no lift.

Well, there were plenty of good restaurants within walking distance, he thought, if he could talk her into having dinner with him! She had told him she was living on a shoestring, so the idea of a free meal would probably be too tempting for her to resist. He hoped.

The apartment-house lobby was dank and gloomy, as they often were in this neighbourhood. He checked out the mailboxes first and was relieved to find a first-floor flat had the name Narodni neatly printed in capital letters beside the name Janacek.

He had to ring the doorbell several times before anyone opened up, and even then the chain was left on while a face peered out through the narrow crack. It wasn’t Sophie Narodni. This woman was much older; a very thin, febrile face, without make-up, faintly Oriental-looking, black eyes, slanting a little, a wide mouth and high cheekbones.

‘Yeah?’ Her voice was entirely American, not to say New York. Bronx-born, he decided as she added, ‘Wha’d’yer want?’

‘I’m looking for Sophie Narodni.’

‘She’s not back yet.’

‘Are you Lilli Janacek?’

She gave him a suspicious look. ‘What if I am? I don’t know you. I’m cooking, I can’t stand here talking.’ The door began to close. Steve put his foot into it. The black eyes looked down at his highly polished shoe. ‘I only have to press this panic button, mister, and the apartment security alarm will go off. Get your foot out of my door.’

Steve pulled out his press card, held it up. ‘I’m Steve Colbourne, I work for NWTV, maybe you’ve seen my show? If you’re interested in politics you will have. I just saw Sophie at the Gowrie press conference and wanted to talk to her about something important.’

She looked at the photo on his press card, then, closer, at him, her black, thin brows making a perfect semicircle in surprise. ‘Sure. Sure, I’ve seen you on TV, I remember your face now.’

‘Could I wait for Sophie inside, please? It’s chilly enough to freeze the blood out here, and the lobby smells like a urinal.’

She hesitated, then unhooked the chain. ‘I guess so, come in.’