by Eric Brown
She switched on the computer and accessed the file containing her novel. She tried to push the thought of Kia from her mind and read a few pages. The novel was about life in twenty-first-century New York, concentrating on a group of professional twentysome-things, gay and straight alike. She changed the odd line, rewrote a wordy paragraph, then sat back and stared at the screen.
If only she could sell one or two of her serious novels, redeem her integrity in her own eyes . . . She smiled to herself and wondered if she were living a fantasy just as make-believe as Sasha in Sapphic Island.
She stared at the words on the screen, but it was hard to concentrate when half her mind was wondering what had happened to Kia. She closed the file and glanced at the wall-clock. It was almost nine.
She routed the wallscreen through the computer and checked for messages. Perhaps Kia had called, apologising . . .
The first message was from Felicity: Anna, sorry to call so early. Could you contact me at home, darling?
She wondered what it was this time. Perhaps the script needed a little more sexing up, as Felicity called it. Or maybe the powers that be at Tidemann’s had decided to go for a third series. She’d tell them to stuff it: well, not in so many words. She’d get her agent to arrange that she was kept on in a consultative capacity, and get some hack in to do the actual scripting. That way she’d be earning something, and would have time to do her own work.
She got through to Felicity.
The producer smiled from the screen. ‘Anna, nice to see you, sweetie. We had some good news about theIsland last night.’
Anna lodged her bare feet on the chair and hugged her legs. ‘I’m all ears.’
Felicity peered at her, trying to determine whether Anna was being sarcastic. ‘Well, first, Germany and France have bought the first series of the Island for showing later this year, with an option on the second, depending on how well it goes down. They like what they’ve seen and will be putting a massive publicity campaign behind the show. And second, Brazil has bought the rights to make their own Island, based on your scripts. Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘Fantastic,’ Anna said. She had a quick vision of tanned Brazilian bodies in the orgy scene, then concentrated on what Felicity was saying.
‘You’ll be getting ten per cent of the original fee per show from Germany and France, and the Brazilian fee has yet to be arranged. Contact your agent for all the details, okay?’
Anna nodded. ‘I’ll do that, Felicity, thanks.’ Another . . . what? One hundred and twenty thousand dollars, plus whatever the Brazilian payment came to. With all the money she’d earned from the original advances she would have sufficient savings to live in some quiet upstate retreat for a few years, doing her own thing.
She wondered if that, too, was just another fantasy.
‘One more thing, Anna,’ Felicity said. ‘We’re starting the shoot of the final episode tomorrow. Would you like to come along to the studio and be on hand to supervise the last-minute line changes?’
‘Well . . . I’m working on something of my own at the moment. Can’t really take a break.’ She was glad of the excuse. She had hated her previous trips to the studio, the forced sincerity of the beautiful actresses out of their heads on spin, the bullshitting executives who just loved the show . . .
Felicity smiled and waved. ‘Okay, Anna. Be in touch.’
She cut the connection and checked the second message. A handsome middle-aged guy with greying sideburns smiled out at her. He was seated casually on the edge of a desk in a big open-plan office.
‘Hi, Anna. I’m Dave Charlesworth, commissioning editor at Shire Press. I liked the novel, Anna. Could you get back to me and we’ll talk?’
Anna stilled the image and stared. She was aware of her pulse, thumping in her ears. She rewound the message and played it again - and he really had said that he liked the novel.
Shire Press. They were a big, reputable publisher with imprints in Europe . . . Five thousand, she said to herself. I’ll take five thousand measly dollars and be eternally grateful.
She contacted Shire Press and asked to see Dave Charlesworth. Seconds later, his image filled the screen.
Anna waved, trying to appear casual. ‘Anna Ellischild here. I got your message.’
‘Anna . . . nice to speak to you.’ Charlesworth was a smooth-talking exec in a dark suit. ‘I really liked A Better World.’
‘Thanks. It’s nice to hear that. It’s one of my favourites, too.’
‘Understandably so, a fine book.’
Here it comes, Anna thought: the offer, the contract details. She was almost willing to give the damned book away.
‘I’d heard rumours on the grapevine . . .’ he began.
‘Rumours?’
‘That Anna Ellischild was in fact Sophia de Vere, script-writer of Sapphic Island.’
‘Well. . .’ Anna shrugged. ‘It was something I did to put food on the table.’
‘Don’t knock it, Anna. The show obviously reached people on some deep and meaningful level.’
What the fuck, Anna asked herself, was he talking about? ‘It was a project I did in my spare time,’ she said. ‘About A Better World . . .’
‘Actually, Anna, I’m calling about Sapphic Island.’
A trapdoor seemed to open in Anna’s stomach. ‘You are?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I loved A Better World - beautifully written, the characterisation ... it proved you certainly can write. Thing is, Anna, Shire Press has just bought the rights to do the novelisation of Sapphic Island, and we were wondering if you’d like to do it, under the nom de plums of Sophia de Vere, of course.’
It was a few seconds before she could bring herself to speak. ‘You don’t want the novel?’
‘Personally, I’d love to do the book, Anna, but in the current climate...’
‘How about as part of a deal? Sophia de Vere does the Sapphic Island books, and A Better World comes out under my own name?’ She realised that she was sounding desperate.
Charlesworth frowned. ‘Like I said, Anna, I’d love to do the book, but we just don’t think it has the commercial potential.’
Anna fought back the tears and cursed the prick. She shook her head. ‘I’m not interested in doing the novelisation,’ she said. ‘Get some other poor hack to do the damned thing.’
‘Perhaps we could negotiate with you to have the rights to use the Sophia de Vere byline?’
‘Discuss that with my agent,’ Anna said, reached out and cut the connection.
She sat back and closed her eyes. Plain, forthright rejection she could take, but to be given hope like that, only for it to be dashed away and replaced by the offer of novelising the damned script of Sapphic Island . . . Later, when the disappointment abated, she might be able to laugh at what had happened. Now she wished that Kia was here, for support.
She sat for a long time, staring at the wall.
She remembered that there was a third message awaiting her, and played it through the screen.
Carrie Villeux looked out. ‘Anna, can we meet today? I’m worried about Sissi. Look. . .’ She hesitated, biting her bottom lip. She leaned towards the screen. She appeared nervous, and this exaggerated her French accent. ‘The other day, I told you that Sissi was acting very strange. She was using disguises. Sissi has this thing, an electronic mask: she can put on a different face. I’m worried, Anna. Will you meet me?’ She paused. ‘I’m seeing Sissi at the Astoria at ten this morning; could we meet for coffee around, say, ten-thirty? Don’t worry, I’ll get away from Sissi in plenty of time. Meet you in the lobby of the Astoria at ten-thirty, okay?’ The message ended.
She looked at her watch. It was ten-fifteen. If she hurried, she would make the Astoria in fifteen, twenty minutes. She found her shoes and coat, left the apartment and walked uptown.
She reached the Astoria five minutes late. Three police cars and a silver van were parked outside the hotel’s revolving doors, and the lobby was swarming with cops and drones. Ann
a looked around for Carrie. It was after ten-thirty, but surely Carrie would have waited. There was no sign of her in the lobby. Anna made her way to the cafe, but Carrie was not among the guests seated at the tables.
She returned to the lobby and sat in one of the comfortable armchairs. Perhaps Carrie had been unable to get away from Sissi. Anna decided to wait until eleven and then leave.
A team of what she took to be forensic scientists swept through the lobby and into the elevator, followed by three floating drones. Anna gestured to a passing bell-boy and asked him what was going on.
‘Lady murdered on the fourth floor, miss,’ the guy replied. ‘Real messy by all accounts.’
Anna felt her scalp prickle. It had to be a coincidence, she told herself. Carrie would be here at any minute.
‘Do you know who . . .?’ she began.
The guy shrugged. ‘Woman in a silver coat,’ he said. ‘She was sitting right where you are now.’
Anna’s mouth ran dry. ‘What did she look like?’
The guy grinned. ‘One of thosealternative women,’ he said. ‘You know, bald head, tattoos . . .’
Anna stood and left the lobby. She pushed through the revolving door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The cold air was refreshing, clearing her head.
Carrie was dead. She had gone to meet Sissi Nigeria, and now she was dead. It made no kind of sense and Anna felt light-headed, adrift on the tide of pedestrians that flowed along the sidewalk.
She looked up, across the street. A short guy dressed in faded black was standing outside the ComStore, talking to an even shorter, older guy in a soiled overcoat.
Something made her cross the street and approach him. He looked up as she stepped onto the sidewalk, dark eyes registering his recognition only after a lapse of seconds.
‘Hal,’ she said. ‘I thought it was you.’ Her smile faltered. ‘You haven’t changed much.’
He stared at her, shy. ‘Sue? I didn’t recognise you.’ He gestured to her clothes, her hair. ‘You’ve altered.’
‘You have time for a drink?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ Hal said. ‘Why not?’
The short, old guy winked at her and said, ‘You going to introduce us, Hal?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Hal smiled at her uneasily. ‘Barney, this is my sister, Sue. Sue, my business partner, Barney.’
They nodded to each other. ‘Pleased to meet you, Sue,’ the guy said.
‘Take the car, Barney,’ Hal said. ‘I’ll get a cab back.’
‘Catch you later, Hal.’ Barney nodded to Anna, then set off along the sidewalk.
Anna turned to her brother. He looked a little older, a little more careworn, but he was still the Hal she recognised from five years ago.
She gestured to a nasty, healing gash on the side of his head. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s nothing. Look . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Let’s find somewhere that does coffee. I’ve been up for hours. I need something to keep me awake.’
‘I could use a drink, Hal. Something strong. I’ve just found out that a friend has been . . .’ She stopped as she saw his expression. ‘What is it?’
‘Not Carrie Villeux?’ he said. ‘You knew Villeux?’
‘We weren’t close, but we were more than acquaintances.’
‘I was working for her, trying to find her lover.’
She nodded, recalling what Kia had told her about Hal the other night. ‘Let’s find a bar, sit down and talk, okay?’
‘I know a place around the corner.’
She walked alongside her brother, wondering why she had let so long pass without contacting him. They had been close when they were younger, but later she had used her intellect to put him down, point out the limitations of his conditioning, and had earned his mystified, hurt resentment.
He had been a rather slow good-natured kid. When he had announced that he was joining the police, she recalled that their father had made some comment about it being a second-best choice, while she had taunted him for conforming.
Now she squeezed his arm. ‘It’s good to see you, Hal. Really, it is.’
He gave her a quick glance, as if wondering when the insults would begin. ‘Good to see you too, Sue.’
‘I prefer Anna, now.’
He looked mystified for a second, then said, ‘Ah, Susanna.’ He smiled. ‘Of course.’
He had a slow, measured way of speaking that she remembered from all those years ago, as if he were contemplating the words before he spoke them. It gave him a relaxed, easy manner - a certain sense of slow deliberation - which she found somehow reassuring.
Then, sickeningly, her thoughts returned to the fact that Carrie was dead . . .
They entered a bar and Hal ordered a coffee while she asked for a Southern Comfort on the rocks. They found a quiet booth at the back of the bar and sat facing each other.
‘About Carrie,’ she said. ‘I had a call from her about an hour ago. I was working so she left a message.’ She repeated what Carrie had told her about Sissi. ‘Carrie was due to meet her at ten.’
Hal was nodding. ‘I know. They met.’ He stopped there, stared into his coffee. He looked up, rubbing his jaw. ‘Nigeria killed Carrie Villeux in the hotel room, left the hotel and crossed the street to the ComStore. We found her in there half an hour ago, dead.’
Anna felt the rye burn her throat and tears came to her eyes. ‘Sissi too?’
Hal shrugged, staring down at his coffee. ‘Look, what do you know about them? We’re baffled. Nigeria was going about in disguise. She attacked me the other night when I called around to check her apartment.’
‘Sissi attacked you?’ Anna was incredulous.
He nodded. ‘I know, it’s hard to believe.’ He lifted the cup to his lips and blew across the surface of the coffee. ‘Have you any idea why Nigeria might have acted like this? Could it have had anything to do with drugs?’
Anna shook her head. ‘Sissi didn’t do drugs. She was careful about things that might’ve messed up her mind.’
Hal sighed and massaged his face. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing, Sue - Anna. We’re beat. We don’t know what the hell went on between them, why Nigeria acted as she did. The case is closed, officially, but it’s so damned frustrating because it’s not. . .’ He searched for the word.
‘Concluded?’
‘Concluded.’ He smiled. ‘You still writing?’
She was often asked that question, as if writing was a phase through which she might some day pass, or an illness she might get over.
She nodded. ‘Still writing.’
‘How’s it going?’ He paused. She could see that he wanted to ask if she’d sold anything, but at the same time didn’t want to make her admit that she was still struggling.
She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘I still haven’t sold any of the books, but I’ve written a dozen episodes of a holo-drama series. Hack work, but it pays well.’
His expression showed surprise and pleasure, a nice contrast to his earlier dog-tired, weary look. ‘Holo-dramas? That’s really something. My little sister, the holo-drama writer.’
She had to smile at him. How like Hal to be impressed by something as popular and crass as holo-dramas. She felt like reaching over and ruffling his mop of unruly curls.
He was spinning his empty coffee cup. ‘Went over to Long Island and saw Dad earlier.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Nothing. I went to see him. Just to talk . . .’ He shrugged. He never had been very good at expressing his feelings.
‘How is he?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I mean . . . just the same as ever. Himself. He asked me if I ever saw you . . . and then I bump into you hours later. He wants you to go and visit.’
‘We’ve not a lot in common, Hal.’
‘Neither have I,’ he said, ‘but I made the effort.’
That’s because you’re still a frightened little boy who’s fearful of Daddy, she thought. She stared at him across the ta
ble and wondered why he forever seemed so guilty.
He looked up, past her, and stared at a table across the room. His lips moved, forming silent words, and a look of such sadness entered his eyes that Anna turned. The bar was empty. ‘Hal?’
