by Sarah Rayne
It was just possible that Sir Julius Sherry had sent the note, but it was not very likely that he would write about it being time for them to explore their emotions, not when they had explored them pretty thoroughly on four occasions already. It was a promising situation with Julius, of course, although it was a pity he was so portly, and an even greater pity that he was apt to get out of breath at the wrong moment. But he was richer than Gerald and he lived in London and it would be very nice indeed to be Lady Sherry, although Mia was not going to ditch Gerald quite yet; a girl could fall between two stools that way, and end up with nothing. And now that she thought about it, romantic secrecy was hardly Julius Sherry’s line. As for his son writing the note, the idea had only to be examined to be dismissed; Mia had never come across such a cold fish as Stephen Sherry, and hoped never to do so again.
There was one other contender for that scribbled initial, and that was Tod Miller. Was it possible that Tod had conceived a romantic passion for her? This seemed not beyond the realms of possibility. On balance Mia would prefer to find Flynn Deverill waiting in the shadowy theatre, but a girl had to be practical and you could not have too many strings to your bow. Beaux to your string. At least Tod Miller seemed fitter than old Juley-boy, and less likely to succumb to revolting fits of spluttering bronchitic breathlessness when he reached the short strokes.
There were over twenty-four hours to get through before she would know. There were two boring rehearsals, both with the musical director, Maurice Camperdown, who was taking them through the kidnapping scenes. Mia had decided that if there were any more sarcastic remarks from him about hitting bum notes, she would complain to Gerald, and he would tell the stupid old bandleader where he could stick his baton. She was not hitting bum notes at all and she was doing her best, in fact she was working bloody hard, and a whole lot harder than some of the others! Those irritating understudies, for instance! Mia had seen that common little red-haired tart who was understudying for Mab watching her – yes, and now she came to think about it, she would not be a bit surprised to find that the creature was egging Camperdown on! Probably she was giving him a few free bonks on the side and very likely they had cooked up a nasty little plan for Mia to throw up the part in a tantrum, so that the red-head could step in. Over my dead body! thought Mia, angrily.
She would get through their silly rehearsals and she would not be irritated into losing her temper. And she would tell Gerald that there were some extra bits of polishing to do on her scenes which would give her a good excuse for going out by herself.
She began to plan what she would wear, with due attention to the practicalities of undressing (or, better still, being undressed, especially if it was Flynn), but then of looking suitably dazzling afterwards. You did not want to walk into Marivaux’s (Marivaux’s, for heaven’s sake!) looking creased and dishevelled.
Tod Miller? Danilo? Flynn Deverill?
It had been simplicity itself to break through one of the bricked-up arches.
Christian had kept watch for four nights, until he was reasonably sure of the security arrangements. The Harlequin was patrolled by a company who specialised in night watches for large buildings, and checks were made at ten o’clock, midnight, two a.m. and four a.m. when two men, armed with intercoms and mobile phones, went into the building – one through the stage door and one through the box office entrance – and checked each floor in turn, and then the backstage and dressing room areas. Between those hours the place was deserted, and Christian thought the two men worked to a fairly strict timetable, covering several buildings in the vicinity and allowing a set time for each.
He entered the theatre just before eleven, which was a time when the streets were still sufficiently crowded for him to pass unnoticed, but which was safely between the ten p.m. and the midnight patrol. He had brought two powerful torches with him, and although he was fairly certain that no light would penetrate up to the main theatre, he switched both on, and walked into the upper passages, testing the range of the light. Not a glimmer. Good.
He retraced his steps, and positioned the torches so that their beams shone directly onto the smallest of the arches, where the brickwork looked weakest. Actually breaking through the wall had exercised his mind considerably: he had turned over ideas for bringing some kind of drill down here, but he had no idea what sized drill would be needed, or whether it would be possible to operate one without electricity. And then, on one of his forays into the Harlequin, he had come upon a pile of scaffolding poles – probably part of a dismantled gantry left by electricians or scenery painters – and he had picked one of them up to gauge the weight. The poles were all very heavy indeed. They were so heavy, in fact, that with a reasonable degree of luck, one of the shorter ones could be used as a battering-ram to break through the old brickwork. To make assurance doubly sure, he brought with him a large, heavy-headed hammer.
In the end, the hammer was hardly needed. Christian found it possible to use the pole like a battering-ram, simply swinging it against the brickwork with all his strength. And whoever had bricked up these old stage entrances had made a very cursory job of it indeed; several bricks yielded almost at once, crumbling like chalk and tumbling inwards, smashing on the cobbled floor with a sound that ricochetted through the tunnel like the crack of doom. Christian jumped and felt his heart leap. He waited, prepared to meet an attack, but there were only the shadows and the ghosts, and ghosts did not worry him.
He worked doggedly at the small hole, chipping at the bricks around it with the hammer, careful to stop at the times when the guards would be in the theatre. Several times he thought he heard movement, and he stopped at once, turning sharply to scan the shadows. Something approaching? Someone coming down to investigate? Once he thought footsteps approached and once there was the sound of a door being slammed. The security guards coming in at a different hour after all? Deliberately altering their schedule to fool burglars who might have kept watch and be timing a break-in? He waited, ready to make good his escape through the old sub-level door, but the footsteps – if footsteps they had been – ceased and there was no sound other than the occasional creaking of old timbers as the wood contracted in the cold night air.
And then a little before three a.m. a much bigger section of the brickwork suddenly collapsed, and sour dry air gusted out to meet him with a little sighing sound, as if something that had long lain buried had drawn breath once more.
Christian picked up the nearer of the torches and shone it into the yawning gap. The beam picked out amorphous shapes, swathed in layers upon layers of cobwebs: ancient skips and tea-chests, and pieces of discarded scenery and props; rotting costumes and old stage weights and canvas flats. There was a scent of extreme age now as well – old timbers, and mildew and sadness.
After a moment, he stepped through into the ancient cellars that lay below Scaramel’s theatre, and felt the crowded history and the soaked-up memories of three hundred years close about him.
Mia wore black for the rendezvous. A very smart Vivienne Westwood black two-piece, it was, with silver buttons on the jacket and a very short skirt, trimmed with silver lace. Gerald had expressed innocent amazement that such a small garment should be so expensive. With it she wore shiny, black, high-heeled boots, and black stockings with a scarlet silk suspender belt. All men were turned on by stockings and suspenders. She would be taking the two-piece off (at least, she hoped she would), but she would be keeping the stockings and suspender belt on. And the boots – yes, keeping on the boots would be a terrific turn-on. She put on the stockings in the bathroom of the hotel room, so that Gerald would not see them, and she had put her scarlet coat over the whole thing. Scarlet and black always took the eye, and she did not intend to go unnoticed in Marivaux’s.
She was feeling quite tingly with anticipation as she paid off the taxi and approached the Harlequin. It reared up against the night sky, black and bulky, and Mia glanced up at it and thought you could almost say it looked menacing. But this was a silly fancy; she stood for a mo
ment longer, and imagined how it would look in a week’s time: the show’s title in lights along with her own name. Her name in lights . . . Oh yes, it was a good feeling. It was worth a dozen tedious marriages to boring old men, and it was worth all the nights spent coaxing a stubbornly flaccid manhood to a semblance of stiffness. And poor old Gerald, poor old sod, was always so bloody grateful when that happened!
Come through the stage door and wait just inside, the note had said, and Mia went carefully around the side of the building and down the narrow, cobbled alleyway. The Harlequin was so old it had quite a few traces of a much older London; everyone kept saying this with a kind of hushed awe, although Mia could not see what was so wonderful about antiquity. In buildings it meant draughts and cold floors, and in people it meant indigestion and impotence. She pushed the stage door and felt it swing inwards. He was keeping to his promise, then; he had left it open for her, and he would be waiting somewhere inside.
Wait just inside and I will come to you . . .
It was darker than she had been expecting, and it was suddenly a rather nasty darkness; all clotting shadows and slithering black shapes. Like those old films where the stupid heroine was lured into the deserted old house, miles from anywhere, and then torn to pieces by a raving maniac. Mia wished she had not thought about that, because you could almost say that she had been lured here, and that this was a deserted old house, although it was certainly not miles from anywhere; if she stood still she could hear the traffic from the road. And far from the rendezvous being with a raving maniac, it was with a cultured and distinguished gentleman of the theatre who had harboured a passion for her ever since he had seen her, and who had contrived this romantic and exciting meeting, and who, moreover, was going to take her to supper at Marivaux’s afterwards. Cheered up by these undoubted facts, Mia went deeper into the dark Harlequin, her high-heeled boots tapping against the stone floor.
Wait just inside and I will come to you . . . He was taking a bloody long time about it. It was to be hoped he did not expect her to hang about by this draughty stage door for too long. Mia shivered and wrapped the scarlet coat around her a bit more tightly. Behind her the door closed very softly, almost as if of its own volition, and there was a click as the catch slid home. Mia whipped round, peering into the darkness, fear prickling her skin, but there was nothing to be seen. Very likely a gust of wind had blown the door, because it was a draughty old barn, the Harlequin. She moved away from the door, and remembered that there was a row of light switches somewhere on the right. She went forward, feeling her way cautiously, trying to remember if there were any steps or uneven bits of floor.
It was then that she became aware that there was someone standing quite near to her.
For the space of three heartbeats panic engulfed her, and then she almost laughed aloud.
‘So there you are – you gave me quite a scare.’ She managed one of the laughs which Gerald always said fondly were musical, but which, even to her own ears, sounded a bit hollow now.
‘Of course I am here.’ He spoke softly and a bit blurrily, as if he was disguising his voice, or as if he was wearing a scarf over his mouth. It was impossible to identify him from that. ‘Did you not expect me to be here?’
‘Well yes, but you made me jump, creeping up like that. Aren’t you going to let me see you?’ said Mia, and at once the indistinct figure moved away.
‘Not just yet, Mia.’ Yes, he had a smooth, caressing way of saying her name. As if he enjoyed it. As if he was savouring it. ‘Come away from the door,’ said the figure, and Mia felt another tingle of anticipation, because had there been a suggestion of Irishness then? Flynn Deverill after all? This was beginning to be an excellent evening. Herself and the startlingly good-looking, hot-tempered Flynn! They said hot-tempered men made tremendous lovers – all that mental passion. Mia was very glad indeed she had responded to the intriguing invitation, instead of staying in with Gerald and watching boring old telly.
‘Follow me,’ said the man. Yes, he was wearing something across his mouth; Mia could hear how the words came out muffled.
‘Where are we going?’ She went after him, her boots clattering on the stone floor again. Her companion moved almost noiselessly, like a cat. A black cat, slinking through the darkness . . . As long as he’s a tomcat I don’t much mind, thought Mia. I wonder where we’re going? It would be rather fun to end up in one of the old stage boxes; the Edwardians had been famous for the things they had got up to in theatre boxes, drawing the curtains and banging away with their girlfriends. Like the Mile High Club today.
Wherever they were going tonight it did not look as if it was a box. Mia followed the dark figure obediently, although he was moving so quickly that she could not quite catch him up. There was not much light in here, but there was just enough to see your way, and her companion did not hesitate. He looked as if he was wearing a cloak, which was unusual, although cloaks might be making a comeback for men. Mia found herself stumbling a bit because of the high heels. It would be a screaming irony if she tripped and sprained her ankle.
They were in the backstage part now, which was a bit unexpected. But perhaps there was a set of offices somewhere – a hospitality suite. Yes, that would be it.
‘This way, Mia . . .’
And now down a flight of stairs and through a narrow door. Mia had lost all sense of direction by now, but she knew she had never been in this part of the theatre. There was a light up ahead, though, which was something, but her companion seemed to have vanished. If this turned out to be a stupid practical joke she would have something to say about it in the morning! She would just let them know that she was not someone to be played jokes on like this! She started to say, ‘Now look here, Mr Whoever-You-Are—’ and was stopped by the sound of his voice again.
‘In here, Mia . . .’ The words sang a silly little rhythm in her head. In-here-Mi-ha . . . In-hia-Mere . . .
There was the flicker of a torch being played over old brick walls – where was this, for God’s sake? – and Mia stood irresolute for a moment. And then the torch shone again, seeming to come from inside some kind of arched opening. He was behind the light – Mia could just make out the dark shape. This had bloody better be worth it! She ducked her head and went through the opening.
And now it was no longer vaguely frightening, it was the real thing. Wherever this place was, it was spooky and very menacing indeed. Mia glanced over her shoulder, and saw the blurry outline of the brick opening. If something started to happen that she did not like she would just run hell-for-leather through that opening, and she would run all through the theatre, screaming bloody murder as she went. And then she would run out into the street and scream bloody murder as well, and that would teach this creep to treat her a bit better!
She was just thinking that maybe this was what she would do anyway, when there was the soft laugh again, and the voice came whisperingly through the shadows. ‘Oh Mia,’ it said. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
And of course it was all right, and of course it was a wildly romantic game after all, and there was probably a secret love-nest down here, and in a very few minutes she would know who her companion was. (And wasn’t it looking more and more as if it was Flynn Deverill? You could never, in a million years, imagine Julius Sherry or Tod Miller setting this up.)
Mia began to move forward through the old rubbish and the tattered bits of scenery and props. Smelly old things, they were. The whole place smelt. Damp and dirt and mice. Her eyes were adjusting to the light, and she could see the shrouded outlines of furniture. That one looked like a sofa, and there were several large chairs, and over there was a dismantled four-poster. They were all draped in dustsheets and covered with cobwebs, and in the gloom they were extremely eerie. Mia bit her lip and glanced back. How far to the brick opening? Yes, but if it really was Flynn . . .? She could not see him any longer, but she could feel that he was quite near.
And then she heard something that was so soft and light she might almost have i
magined it, but something so filled with trickling menace that her mind reeled with terror.
A soft, soft voice singing . . .
O never go walking in the fields of the flax
At night when the looms are a-singing;
The pale thick dustsheet draped over the nearest sofa suddenly reared up and a dark shape emerged from it and began to walk towards her. The mocking singing came to her again.
For Rossani’s at work and he’s hungry for prey;
He’ll melt down your eyes and he’ll spin them for gold.
He’ll peel off your skin and he’ll sew him a cloak.
Mia began to scream.
Christian had stunned the screaming, stupid creature in the same way that he had stunned the bitch Leila in Soho. Enough to shut her up for a while but not enough to render her unconscious for very long. Certainly not enough to kill her.
He dragged Mia’s inert body across the dusty floor and laid her out on the small area he had cleared earlier, and then bent to feel for a pulse. Yes, there was a little beating hammer at the base of her throat. Good.
The silly, vain bitch was wearing leather boots. Christian studied them for a moment, and then bent over, preparing to unzip them and drag them off. The scarlet coat had fallen open, and he saw that she was wearing a short, tight, black skirt which had ridden up, exposing the tops of stockings, held up by scarlet suspenders. In different circumstances it might have been immensely arousing, but looking down at the thick, fleshy thighs and the clinging mini-skirt, Christian was aware only of deep contempt. This creature to attempt to play Mab, to attempt to portray the magical, fey, Irish queen that he and Fael had created!
The memory of Fael brushed against his mind for a moment, and with it came a breath of something from a different world: something that was scented with autumn rain and spring meadows, and crackling applewood fires and the sun dissolving into the sea on Ireland’s wild western coast . . . A world where there were no dark shadowlands and no tormented minds etched with the need for revenge. The thought: I could still turn away from this; she could still be revived, started to frame.
