Walking in Darkness

When her father came, maybe he might get the same feeling? She didn’t remember him mentioning it when he came shortly after their wedding, but he would have had other things on his mind, as she had had.

She had forgotten to ask him then. She must remember this time. She had very few memories of her early childhood, and those she had were very vague. Her earliest memory was of her mother crying for some reason, and holding her too close, so that Cathy got scared. She couldn’t remember anything else about the occasion, only that she had begun to cry too. Her mother had probably been in one of her strange downward spirals. You never knew how she would be when you saw her; one minute she seemed perfectly normal and cheerful, the next she would either sit silent and blank-faced for hours, or would scream and turn violent.

It had made Cathy’s home life uneasy and uncomfortable. Her father had sent her off to one of the best girls’ schools in New England as soon as she was old enough to go away, and although she loved her parents she had been relieved. Her life was calmer, happier, away from the unpredictable mood swings of her mother.

Later still her mother had gone to Easton to live with Grandee and Grandma, and the atmosphere at home had changed so much that Cathy had eagerly waited for vacations and a chance to spend more time with her father. With her mother at Easton, Cathy was the one who went on the campaign trail with him, canvassed, stuck up posters, sat beside him on platforms, taking her mother’s place, shook hands, talked to voters. She had loved it, had talked about going into politics herself. She could remember long evenings discussing the idea with Steve Colbourne, whose family were as obsessed with politics as her own.

She frowned at the thought of Steve. He was part of a past she preferred to forget. All that was before she met Paul and discovered other dreams.

Mr Tiffany snorted and danced sideways impatiently, eager to be off again. ‘OK, OK,’ Cathy said, strands of her dark hair blowing across her face, and they began to gallop.

She had to get back, anyway, to make a final check on the arrangements for her father’s visit. Security men had already been to inspect the security system of the estate; the electrified fence surrounding the entire park, the alarm systems on the gates and walls, the doors and windows of the house, on the stairs and corridors inside. Not a mouse could move at Arbory at night without setting off alarm bells. Paul was just as much in the public eye as her father, and just as protective of his own privacy, but, naturally, her father’s staff wanted to make absolutely certain he would be safe there.

She smiled, staring at Arbory as she rode towards it. It looked so tranquil, a quiet haven of peace in this dreaming countryside. In a few days it would be alive with people, telephones would ring, faxes chatter, cars come and go, helicopters land on the immaculate turf. She still found it hard to believe that all those years of work and planning and dreaming might be about to pay off. Soon, her father could be the president of the United States, and then nothing would ever be the same again, for him or for her.

Sophie woke up, surprised to find that she had been asleep for two hours. She went to the bathroom, used the lavatory then took a leisurely shower, enjoying the warm water sluicing down her body, washing away the hospital smells, the panic and fear she had felt over the last twenty-four hours. When she stepped out, she put on a towelling robe, dried herself, lightly towelled her w

et hair and went back into the bedroom to unpack. Choosing bra and panties, a pair of well-washed old jeans she had bought at Camden Market in London when she first arrived in Britain, and a thin ribbed cotton sweater she had bought a month ago at a fleamarket in Greenwich Village, she dressed, then put the rest of the clothes away and sat down to flick through Room Service. Chinese stir-fried chicken and vegetables sounded good; she rang down and ordered that, with a bottle of mineral water and a pot of coffee.

‘Regular or decaff?’ asked the girl who took her order, and would have begun one of those endless multi-choice questions, but Sophie interrupted. ‘Regular, please. And could you send up some fresh fruit?’

‘You got it,’ said the girl. ‘Your order should be with you in twenty minutes.’

Replacing the phone, Sophie switched on the TV and curled up on the bed to watch cartoons, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything. Her mind was running along the same track all the time: Don Gowrie, her mother, the subway last night, the woman lying so still in the hospital bed this morning. Each time a new image leapt into her mind she winced and tried to think of something else. The cartoons were no help; she had to find something more interesting to watch. She flicked through the channels. Coming upon the hotel’s own advertising channel she watched that for a minute. They seemed to have a whole shopping mall downstairs: hairdressing salon, news-stand, fashion boutique, gift shop, florists.

Florists, Sophie registered on a double-take. Jack-knifing upwards, she reached for the phone again, dialled the number of the florists downstairs and sent flowers to the hospital for the woman she had unwittingly pushed under the train. There was no real recompense she could make. The gesture made her feel a little better, though, lightened the burden of her guilt.

A sharp tattoo on the door made her jump. She froze, briefly, her heart running so fast it hurt.

‘Room service!’ a voice outside the door said, and Sophie gave a sigh of relief and hurried to let in the waiter after she had checked him out through the fish-eye spy-hole in the door. He was a small, angular Puerto Rican with a few pock-marks on his olive skin; there was nobody else around so she opened the door.

When he had laid out her meal on the table by the window she tipped him and let him out, making sure she put the chain back on the door before going back to eat. The food was better than she had hoped, the vegetables cooked crisply and quickly, the chicken tender, the sauce a mixture of honey and soy sauce. Sophie felt better when she had eaten it. She sat back to drink her strong coffee, switching the TV on again.

The news came on a few moments later, and she jumped in surprise as Steve Colbourne’s face appeared, talking in that quick, super-cool, super-confident way. He was everywhere!

‘With the New Hampshire primary only a few months away now, Senator Don Gowrie is gearing up for battle against the other would-be-presidents who are fighting it out for selection as future occupant of the White House. Getting yourself noticed is vital – many are called but few are chosen. Senator Gowrie had to stand out from the crowd – but with his background in international diplomacy, having represented the United States in many parts of the globe, he has many friends abroad and at home who can give him support simply by making it known how highly they value him. Most presidential candidates stay and slog it out at home, struggling to get TV and press recognition – but Senator Gowrie is not most candidates. Tomorrow he is flying to Europe to meet with the leading political figures there. He may only be a candidate so far, but Don Gowrie is already acting like a president-elect. This is a man to watch.’ He paused, smiled. ‘This is Steve Colbourne in New York.’

His face faded and the two newsreaders came back into shot; the woman smiled into camera. ‘And on a chilly November day in New York there was a touch of spring in the air when a Brooklyn florist celebrating his golden wedding decided to give away a red rose to every woman customer who came into his shop.’

Sophie switched off the TV and sat staring at the telephone, her mind in confusion. She had made a solemn promise to her mother, a promise she could not break. You didn’t break faith with someone who might die any minute. Somehow she had to persuade Gowrie to listen to her, understand what was at stake, but how? The man had so much to lose, she understood that. He wasn’t going to want to talk to her – how could she make him do what she wanted?

Don’t sit about brooding on it! she crossly told herself. It’s time you did it. She got up and grabbed the phone, dialled the operator and asked for the Penthouse Suite, not even sure they would put her through, but they did, indifferently; she wasn’t asked any questions. The phone shrilled, then a woman answered briskly.

‘I would like to speak to Senator Gowrie,’ Sophie tried to sound calm but was afraid her own voice was husky with nerves.

‘May I ask who wishes to speak with him?’

‘Sophie Narodni.’

There was an intake of air, as if the other woman was startled, then for a second or two silence before the brisk voice said, ‘The senator is not available, I’m afraid.’

Sophie threw caution to the winds. She had delayed long enough; she had, somehow, to make contact. ‘Please tell him I must speak to him, before he leaves for Europe. Tell him for his own sake he has to listen to me.’

The other woman’s voice thickened in anger. ‘Blackmail is an ugly crime. You could go to prison for a very long time and don’t think he won’t call the police. You aren’t scaring him. He knows you don’t have any evidence.’

She knows all about it! thought Sophie. He has told her! This couldn’t be someone who worked for him, it had to be his wife, surely!

‘Are you Mrs Gowrie?’