by Sarah Rayne
‘And you say he had a deformed face? Would you mean an injury? Or some kind of abnormality?’
Flynn said, ‘His face was incomplete.’
‘Ah. Incomplete?’
‘Jesus God, man, I wasn’t in any state to be taking notes! He came at me like a raving maniac, and it was all I could do to fight him off! But I’d guess that at some time he’d had extensive surgery—’ He stopped abruptly as the intruder’s appalling face swam before his vision again, and dug his fingernails into his palms. I won’t be sorry for that creature! After a moment, he said, flippantly, ‘Would you like to hear any more, inspector, while your men are scraping Tod Miller’s heart out of the crankshafts of the wind machine? Or will I show you the precise spot where the monster reared up out of the shadows?’
The inspector exchanged glances with his sergeant, and then said, ‘Have we been down there yet, Williams?’
‘No, sir.’ The slab-faced Williams seemed to imply that it was scarcely within the duties of respectable officers of the law to go burrowing around in haunted brick tunnels.
‘I expect we’d better see it, however,’ said the inspector, resignedly.
‘Oh, you must see it,’ said Flynn, at once. ‘You don’t know what else might be lurking down there, or what other corpses might be mouldering in a dusty corner.’
‘Would you be winding us up by any chance, Mr Deverill? Because if so, it’s called wasting police officers’ time, and it’s quite a serious offence.’
‘Inspector, I am an experienced, industrious, ambitious and often picturesque liar, and my second name is Ananias. But,’ said Flynn, ‘on this occasion I am telling you the truth.’
‘Then we’ll take a look at this tunnel of yours, Mr Deverill.’
‘Of course you will,’ said Flynn, standing up. ‘I’ll give you the guided tour so that you don’t miss a shred of the atmosphere while you’re here. And afterwards, unless you want me any more, I’m going out to see Fael Miller.’
‘You’d be a friend of Miss Miller’s, perhaps, sir?’
‘There’s no need for heavy innuendoes, inspector. I took Fael home last night, but I didn’t get into bed with her. I’m going to see her because no one’s been able to reach her by phone yet, and because I think she might need a friend when she hears about her father’s murder.’
Stirring up the disapproval of Julius and the police had been the only way that Flynn had been able to hide his feelings.
The gruesome things that had been done to Tod Miller and the Makepiece female had been shocking and appalling and an affront to every sense. But it was what had been done to Cauldron that had gouged down into Flynn’s deepest feelings and seared his mind.
But this was something that must be quenched and it was something that no one must guess existed. He would hide the feeling under a veneer of cynicism and disrespect in the way he always did hide his real feelings. He would even hide it from himself by focusing on seeing Fael, on making sure she was all right, on finding out as much as possible about what had happened tonight. If I pretend it’s not there, that furious pain, when I look for it again it may even be gone, he thought, alighting from the taxi outside the large, rather ugly house in Pimlico.
There was a policewoman standing outside the door, which presumably meant they had still not been able to get any reply from the phone and that they had come out here to wait until Fael returned from wherever she had been for the evening. But I don’t believe she’s been anywhere, thought Flynn, going up the narrow path. If she was going anywhere tonight she would have gone to the theatre; she would have wanted to see the first half of the show, because she missed it last night. There’s something wrong about all this. There’s something planned.
It came as a severe shock to learn that the main reason for the police presence was because the house had been broken into, and that there were signs of a struggle in the downstairs rooms.
And Fael Miller had vanished.
To return to his own flat – with the Cauldron designs and bits of the scale model sets still lying around the workroom – was unthinkable. The underground had stopped running by this time, but Flynn kept walking through the night streets, and finally picked up a taxi near Vauxhall Bridge, directing the driver to take him on to Soho.
He got out in Greek Street, and from there plunged deep into the seething, red-lit streets. It was like entering another world, but it was a world of garish neon lights and smoke-filled bars, and strident-voiced prostitutes of both sexes, and thumping rock music . . . The contrast with the world that someone had created for Cauldron – that Flynn had brought to life for the Harlequin’s stage – was painful, but tonight Flynn derived a perverse satisfaction from it.
Because those worlds where smoky dusklight filled up the stage, and where dangerous, beautiful, androgynous creatures prowled and spun magical music that would melt your soul and fuse all your senses, did not really exist. They were dreams, chimerae. Their inhabitants were beings glimpsed in a shadowy mirror, or seen through a glass darkly . . . In fact the whole world’s better seen through a glass, thought Flynn, and turned into the nearest bar.
Time blurred inside the clubs and the bars, and alcohol dulled the pain and forgetting could be bought or at least rented by the hour. But was the pain because of Fael or the show? How did you come to terms with bloody fragments of human bodies smeared across that ethereal, visionary landscape? How did you cope with the dream-world when it crossed over into a nightmare?
I’m damned if I know any longer, thought Flynn, sitting moodily in a bar just off Brewer Street shortly after three a.m., a half-finished glass of whisky in front of him. What I do know is that wretched play slid under my skin and stuck there and I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to scrape it off. Skin . . . Scrape . . . Had they really had to scrape Tod Miller’s heart out of the cogs of that appalling machine? Had they had to peel away the travesty of a cloak that had been draped around Miller’s body?
Flynn shuddered and drained the whisky, setting the glass down unsteadily. He supposed he looked pretty disreputable by this time; his hair was tumbling over his brow and he had not shaved since early morning. He had dragged off the black evening tie and stuffed it in a pocket, and loosened the collar of his dress shirt. The long overcoat he had worn over his evening suit fell open, the skirts trailing on the ground. He probably looked like the archetypal drunk, or an irreclaimable drop-out. He could not have cared less.
It was half-past three when he made his way onto the street once more. Sober enough to walk? Yes, just about. And with luck drunk enough to fall into the sleep that knits up the unravelled sleeve of care. It was as he turned the corner and began to scan the street for a cruising taxi that he realised he was near the Greasepaint Club’s side entrance. He stopped, considering. Bill or the doorman would still be on duty, and there would probably be some coffee brewing. Was that better than going home to face Cauldron’s debris and remember how the Harlequin stage had looked tonight, and wonder all over again about Fael’s disappearance?
Anything’s better than that, said Flynn to himself, and turned in through the side door.
Bill was on duty at the door tonight, and glad of a bit of company because there was never much doing at this time of the morning.
But although he was pleased to see Flynn, he deplored the state he was in. Drink was the ruin of many a good career. It would be a great pity if Flynn’s career was ruined because of it; Bill kept his ear to the ground, which you could do in a place like the Greasepaint, and he knew that Flynn Deverill as a designer was very highly regarded. Difficult, of course; in fact downright bloody rude at times, if you wanted to be accurate. He’d thrown away one or two good opportunities because of it, so the word ran – that scandalous speech he had made at the Inigo Jones Award ceremony! Bill could still remember the uproar that had caused, even though it had been reported that the BBC’s viewing figures had gone into orbit that night as a result. But weren’t all genuinely creative people temperamental
at times?
But it was more a question of too much intelligence than of temperament with this one, thought Bill shrewdly. Impatient with the slower-witted and intolerant of fools, that was Flynn; Bill had seen it before. The right female could go a long way to curing it, of course, but there you were again: this one could have the pick of the females, and according to the gossip, often did. It had made him too particular. Not that the boy looked as if he had been very particular tonight, in fact he looked as if he might have been indulging in just about every excess Soho could offer. But he hauled Flynn into his private lair reserved for off-peak times – very cosy, he and the doorman had made it – and set about making very strong, very hot coffee.
Flynn half fell into the sagging comfortable chair by the glowing electric fire, and said, ‘I’m bloody pissed, Bill.’
‘So I see. A woman, is it?’
Flynn accepted the coffee, and thought: Is it? What about Fael Miller? He said, angrily, ‘Is it hell, a woman. In any case I’m drunk beyond the point of capability tonight.’
‘Whisky,’ said Bill, nodding.
‘Whisky it is. It provokes the desire but takes away the performance, did you know that, Bill?’
‘Oh yes.’
Flynn grinned. ‘It’s not a woman,’ he said. ‘It’s that sorry bloody mess at the Harlequin. Did you hear what happened tonight?’
Bill said he had heard, indeed he had, in fact it was a safe bet that the whole of London had heard by now. ‘People talk, you know, Mr Deverill. Even here—’
‘Especially here, I should think.’ Flynn drank the scalding coffee gratefully. ‘This place could tell a few tales.’
‘Well, that’s true. Mind, so could the old Harlequin. It’ll all be in the papers tomorrow.’
‘Oh, God, don’t remind me.’
‘Murder at the Harlequin,’ said Bill, shaking his head. ‘You can’t expect the tabloids to pass that up. Cracker of a headline, that.’
‘I saw him, you know,’ said Flynn, suddenly. ‘The murderer.’
Bill paused in the act of drinking his own coffee, and set it down carefully. ‘Is that a fact, Mr Deverill?’
‘Yes, it is a fact. It’s not the ravings of a soused imagination, although you might be forgiven for thinking it.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘Yes, of course I did. They wrote it all down, and they were very polite, and they didn’t believe a bloody word I said.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ Flynn drank his coffee, frowning. ‘Oh, because I was anything but polite to them. Because I was extravagant and flippant. And because I told them a bizarre story about a poor sod of a creature who wears a black silk mask to hide the most appalling— What’s the matter, what have I said?’
‘A poor sod of a creature who wears a black silk mask,’ said Bill, staring at Flynn. ‘Is he the Harlequin murderer?’
‘Well, he damn near murdered me. Yes, almost certainly he is. Why? Do you know who he is?’
‘No,’ said Bill. ‘Nobody does. But unless there’re two masked men stalking London, he comes here every Sunday night at midnight.’
‘Every Sunday?’
‘Regular as income tax.’
‘And he wears a mask? Black silk with eye-slits?’
‘Black silk with eye-slits.’
They looked at one another. ‘Boil the kettle for another round of black coffee, will you, Bill,’ said Flynn. ‘While you’re doing that, I’d better put my head under the cold tap in the cloakroom. And then when I’ve sobered up a bit, we’re going to have a talk.’
‘We are?’
‘We are.’ Flynn stood up and tested his stability. ‘Because if the police aren’t going to take our masked stranger seriously, then it’s down to me to do something,’ he said. ‘Or maybe it’s up to me. Which do I mean, Bill?’
Bill grinned. ‘You really are soused, aren’t you, Mr Deverill?’
‘I know it. But listen now, first off, you’re going to tell me about the masked man and the midnight meetings.’
‘And then?’ demanded Bill, suspiciously.
‘I might see it differently when I’m sober,’ said Flynn. ‘In fact I hope I will.
‘But I’ve got the strongest feeling that what I’m going to do is ask you to let me in on the next meeting so that I can find out a bit more about this elusive masked gentleman.’
PART TWO
The changeling . . . is often tormented or exposed, to induce the fairy parents to change the [human] child back again . . .
A Dictionary of Fairies, Katharine Briggs
Chapter Seventeen
As the large car disembarked from the ferry at Rosslare, Fael’s sense of unreality increased.
Just under two days ago I was sitting in the Harlequin, watching a lit stage with my own characters on it. Everything was good in life and everything was opening up for me, and I’d met Flynn Deverill, and the only real problem was how I was going to get my father to acknowledge Cauldron’s true creators. And now I’m being driven across Southern Ireland, and night’s approaching, and I have absolutely no idea where we’re going or what’s going to happen to me.
I suppose I’m really quite frightened, she thought. But I don’t know that I feel frightened, not properly; there’s too much of a dreamlike quality about this to be out-and-out terrified. And I’m with someone I know very well indeed, I’m with the person I shared all those soft, secret nights with. She risked a glance at the silent figure behind the wheel. How could I be afraid of someone who knew what I was thinking before I did – whose tormented loneliness I felt as if it was my own?
But she knew that she was actually very frightened indeed. She thought she was not frightened of the shadow being who had written Cauldron with her; she was afraid of the person who might exist behind the shadow. I don’t know him at all, she thought.
She felt a shiver of panic when she remembered how easily he had overpowered her in the dark kitchen. She had fought like a wildcat, using her fists and clawing and yelling, but she was unable to get out of the hated wheelchair and she was virtually powerless. In the end he had simply moved round to the back of her chair and gagged her with a silk scarf to keep her quiet. After that he had twisted her arms behind her back and tied her wrists together with a second scarf. He had been swift and skilful and there had been a lack of brutality, although there had been no lack of emotion; the quickened breathing had slowed as if he had deliberately banked it down, but excitement blazed from him, and Fael found this a million times more frightening than any physical threat. Because of course he’s mad, she thought helplessly, as he carried her out of the dark house and into the waiting car. But he isn’t so mad that he hasn’t planned all this very cunningly indeed, retorted her mind. It’s the small hours of the morning – there’ll be nobody about.
He had deposited her on the back seat of the car, and then activated what Fael thought were electronic child-proof locks. The click as they were all secured was a very bad sound indeed.
He leaned over then and untied the scarf gag, and before she could draw a shaking breath to speak, he said, ‘We’re driving to South Wales where we’re catching the early ferry to Rosslare.’
‘Rosslare?’ said Fael, staring at him in disbelief. ‘Ireland? You’re taking me to Ireland?’
‘I am. The drive takes about four hours at both ends, but we’ll stop for petrol and a break. I put some things in a suitcase for you before we left. It’s in the boot.’ He glanced at her. ‘I was in the house before you came home.’
So he had riffled her wardrobe and dressing table while she was at Marivaux’s with Flynn. He had taken out sweaters and jeans and presumably underclothes. This was unspeakably unpleasant, but Fael concentrated on it, because it was immeasurably better than trying to think why he was abducting her. In a minute I’ll ask him. No I won’t, not yet. Instead, she said sharply, ‘I hope you remembered toothbrush and hairbrush and shampoo.’
‘Of course.’ He swu
ng the car towards the west-bound M4, concentrating on merging with the traffic. There were very few cars, but there were some, and several heavy lorries. As the car gathered speed again, Christian said, ‘If you behave sensibly this will be a relatively pleasant and quite companionable journey. Don’t we know one another well enough now to be companionable, Fael?’
‘I don’t know you at all,’ retorted Fael. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘You don’t need to know it.’ The eyes behind the mask slits glittered coldly. ‘Listen, Fael,’ he said, ‘if you try to get away or spin crazy stories to anyone about being kidnapped I will render you even more helpless than you are now. Be very sure that I can do that and be very sure that I will do it.’
Fael said, furiously, ‘You’re mad. And if you really believe I won’t yell for help the first chance I get—’
There was a flicker of emotion at that. ‘Have you forgotten that your father didn’t come home tonight, Fael?’ said her companion, softly. ‘Don’t you think you should be wondering what happened to him? Or even – what might be about to happen to him?’
Fael had been trying to see how the door-locks worked. But even if I could open the door we’re doing seventy miles an hour, and if I did get out, how far could I run? About six feet? At his words she said shakily, ‘What do you mean? What’s any of this got to do with my father?’
‘A great deal. If you try to escape me,’ said the soft voice, ‘how can you be sure that Tod won’t suffer?’
There was an abrupt silence. Then Fael said, very carefully, ‘Are you saying that you’ve – that you’ve got my father? That you’ve somehow abducted him and that you’re using him as some kind of hostage? For goodness’ sake, that’s every bad thriller plot ever written!’
‘I don’t know that I’d have been quite so obvious as to use a bad thriller plot device,’ said Christian, thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think I would have put it in quite that way, either. But since you’ve said it for me—’
