The Midnight Side

by Natasha Mostert

  He took a deep breath. Calm. The thing here was to stay calm. He looked down at his hands and willed his fingers to unclench themselves.

  She was breathing so very softly: the rise and fall of her chest almost unnoticeable. Her arms were flung to the side in a curious gesture of yearning. One slim leg was uncovered, the other twisted tight in the bedclothes. For such a tall woman she was surprisingly fragile-looking.

  He had noticed this about her earlier tonight as well, in the locker room of the gym as he had stood over her, rummaging through her bag while she lay motionless on the cold cement floor. She had reminded him of that bird—the dead bird—gripped in the frozen embrace of the pond. He had been walking in the park last week when he had spotted it, its head completely submerged by opalescent ice but one wing sticking up crazily. Isa seemed like that bird. The same thin, delicate bone structure. The same defencelessness.

  On the bedside table stood a vial of tablets and next to it an empty glass. He picked it up and brought it to his nose. Scotch. So that explained this deep, deep sleep.

  Cautiously he moved through the room. There was no sign of the envelope. He had already looked in the kitchen and in the living room. It bothered him that he wasn’t able to find it. Earlier tonight, in the gym, he had thought it would be easy to lay his hands on it. He knew she had it on her. And he knew the letter troubled her. That much was clear from her reaction as she had sneaked a peek at its contents shortly after collecting it. Careful not to be spotted, he had watched her as she stood outside the building, the wind almost whipping the page from her hand. After reading for only a few seconds she had shoved the letter into her bag with a kind of hopeless vehemence. Maybe he was wrong: maybe there was an entirely innocent reason for all of this. Maybe. But something was off-kilter. He sensed it.

  He sat down in the deep, wing-backed armchair. How many times had he wanted to do just this? To sit in this chair, in this room, as though he was the master here. As he leaned back into the shadowed recess, he felt the softness of cashmere against his cheek: Alette’s throw. He smiled in the darkness. Pulling the throw close, he wrapped it around him.

  A slight sound from the bed stilled his movements. Isa had turned onto her back. For a few moments she lay motionless.

  Suddenly she was sitting up.

  He tensed. He was hardly breathing. Slowly she swung first one leg and then the other over the edge of the bed. She yawned.

  Would she see him? Would she turn on the bedside light? He’d have no choice. He would have to do what had to be done. His fists slowly tightened into knots.

  She reached out her hand, but not for the light switch. She picked up the empty glass.

  With a slightly uncertain gait she walked past him, glass in hand. She passed by so close if he reached out his hand he could touch the lace on her sleeve. And still she didn’t see him: was oblivious to his presence.

  He heard her walk into the en suite bathroom behind him and then water running from a tap as she filled the glass. Now would be the time to leave. But he did not want to go just yet. He was still sitting in the chair when she returned to bed, placing the glass carefully on the bedside table. He was still sitting in the chair, long after she had fallen asleep again: her breath slow and even. He was watching her from the shadows and it felt so right.

  ELEVEN

  Loe where a wounded heart, with bleeding eye conspire;

  Is she a flaming fountaine, or a weeping fire?

  The Weeper

  Richard Crashaw (1612–1649)

  DAPHNE CAMPBELL WAS EXCITED. She burst into Martin Penfield’s office; in her enthusiasm almost knocking over his fake Christmas tree with its cheesy-looking red and yellow lights.

  ‘This story is bizarre,’ she said.

  Martin Penfield was a small man with a permanently saturnine expression. He had the reputation of being one of the most aggressive editors in the newspaper business. Now he smiled, thin lips drawing away from startlingly pink gums. ‘You’re drooling,’ he said. ‘I like that. What’s up?’

  Daphne splayed open a sheaf of papers on his desk and pointed to a black-and-white photograph of a sorry-looking, scrubby palm.

  ‘Palmetto angelicus,’ she said dramatically.

  ‘Indeed. So what?’

  Daphne picked out another photograph, this time a glossy coloured print of a lavender-pink blossom and placed it next to the black-and-white photograph.

  ‘Catharanthus roseus.’

  He moved his shoulders irritably. ‘Are we playing twenty questions? What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘These two plants together are responsible for Temple Sullivan’s little miracle.’

  Penfield folded his arms across his chest and raised his brows.

  ‘Catharanthus roseus is a prime source of vincristine and vinblastine—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Daphne. Stop showing off and speak English.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Catharanthus roseus belongs to the periwinkle family and was originally native to Madagascar. Its medicinal value has been known for a long time: vincristine and vinblastine are, among other things, used in the treatment of childhood leukaemia and Hodgkin’s disease. The medicinal value of palmetto angelicus, found exclusively in Madagascar, was discovered by Temple Sullivan scientists. It is the source for a new compound called XM-14. Together with the vincristine and vinblastine found in catharanthus roseus, it is used in Taumex for the treatment of Alzheimer’s. For some reason the combination is able to reverse the acetylcholine deficiency in the brain and stop the formation of the protein tangles and plaques that lead to catastrophic tissue loss.’

  ‘That’s nice. Why do I care?’

  ‘XM-14 is found in the heart of palmetto angelicus. In order to get to it, you have to kill the tree’s stem.’

  She paused. When he didn’t respond she said impatiently, ‘Don’t you get it? Every time you harvest the tree, you destroy it. Even with these trees as common as weeds out there in Madagascar, how long do you think it will take Temple Sullivan to run out of trees?’

  ‘So they plant new ones.’

  ‘Right.’ She nodded. ‘They’re trying. But there’s a wrinkle; it’s not working too well.’ She started to giggle. ‘And the reason for it is completely off the wall.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘In order for the seed to germinate, it has to have passed through the digestive system of a certain type of animal, an animal found only in Madagascar: the white-eared paradise lemur.’

  He stared at her. ‘Excuse me. Are we talking about monkey shit here?’

  She nodded. ‘Exactly. And here’s the point. The paradise lemur is about to be placed on the endangered-species list. Like its cousin the indri, there aren’t too many of them around anymore. So you see: no monkey poo, no palms, no XM-14, no Taumex. Big problems for Temple Sullivan.’

  ‘Well, now,’ he said slowly. ‘I have a present for you.’ Penfield reached over to the other side of his desk and pulled out an envelope from underneath a paperweight shaped like four brass monkeys: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, do no evil. ‘The motto I do not live by,’ as he was fond of saying.

  ‘This arrived in the post this morning.’

  Daphne drew out the sheaf of papers. ‘Oh, wow.’

  ‘Yes. Sophia strikes again.’

  Daphne slid the pages back into the envelope and said slowly, ‘Merry, Merry Christmas, Mr Temple.’

  • • •

  ISA UNPLUGGED the silver stopper from the perfume bottle and held it to her nose. The scent of it was heavy: attar of roses blended with some or other exotic spice. Alette had it made up especially at a tiny perfume shop in the West End.

  The heady scent in this bottle was like nothing Isa would ordinarily pick for herself. She usually opted for neutral, fresh, eaux de cologne with light, citrusy overtones. But maybe it was time to be a little more adventurous. She hesitated for a moment and then drew the stopper lightly across her wrists.

  Sh
e turned around and opened the door to Alette’s closet. A bright green scarf draped across a hanger and squashed in between a navy suit and a red jacket caught her eye. Green had always been Alette’s colour, never hers. Green made her skin look sallow, her eyes murky.

  But not today. As she folded the scarf around her neck, the emerald hue seemed absolutely suited to her complexion. The soft chenille imparted the same sensuous feeling as pushing your fingers through a cat’s fur.

  She picked up the book on alchemy and headed towards the wide windowsill, where a lovely ray of sunshine was warming the air. She had never shared Alette’s passion for mysticism, and only a few days ago she would have found a book like this totally uninteresting. But it wasn’t only her taste in colours and perfume that was changing, it seemed. For the past two days she had been reading fervently, fascinated by the abstruse arguments and knotty language:

  ‘True power will always demand control. In the dark ages, magicians could mould, shape, and alchemically transmute reality, as if a tractable, pliant substance. By focusing their energy on an objective steadfastly, without wavering, they have within them the power to manipulate—power over people, events, even coincidence itself—and power to shape reality to conform to their wishes. Predictable and inevitable will be the actions of those against whom they pit their will.

  But there are those who make a stand. Initiates themselves, they do not allow manipulation of the self. Such a man or woman presents a challenge and temptation to the magician that cannot be withstood. But herein is the seed of the magician’s downfall. In order to manipulate those who challenge them, magicians need to step out of their protective zone, thereby forfeiting control and setting into motion events that may destroy them. The energy they unleash becomes a free force, eluding their grasp, ultimately turning on them with destructive vigour.’

  The front doorbell rang. Isa lowered the book and peered out of the window, but was unable to see who was at the front door. She frowned and for a moment considered ignoring the bell. But then the bell rang once again, long and uninterrupted, and she got up from her seat reluctantly.

  It was Michael. He peered at her through wisps of untidy hair. In his hand he held a clear glass pitcher with a custardy liquid inside. Steam rose from the top.

  He recognized the green scarf around her neck immediately: she could see it in his eyes. There was a brief, awkward silence.

  Then he smiled. ‘Eggnog.’ He lifted the pitcher by way of explanation and pushed past her into the house.

  He walked without hesitation into the kitchen and took two mugs from the cupboard. As he handed her one of the mugs, he looked her up and down. ‘What happened to your face?’

  She touched her cheekbone self-consciously. ‘At the gym … I slipped.’

  His hand brushed gently against her face. ‘That must have hurt.’

  ‘I’m okay.’ She took a sip of the eggnog and her cheeks puckered from the excessive sweetness. ‘Good Lord. How much sugar do you have in here?’

  ‘Tons,’ he said without hesitation. ‘And whipping cream and whisky. Good, huh?’

  She nodded, took another sip. He was already pouring himself a second cup. She noticed again the awkwardness of his gestures. She found herself constantly holding her breath that his elbow or wrist wouldn’t knock something over in the tiny kitchen. But there was something engaging and rather pleasantly masculine about a man this large. The heavy shoulders, the large hands, even the slightly crumpled boxer’s nose were tremendously appealing. Still, he did not have the kind of dark glamour of a man like Justin, and could certainly never be labelled exciting.

  He was looking at her searchingly. ‘Any more calls?’

  ‘No calls.’ Except the ones she had placed to the brokers. Telling them about the resignation of a legendary finance director. Geissinger had hung up on her. One of the other brokers had threatened to report her. He didn’t know who she was but still, the threat had left her unnerved.

  ‘Are you worried Alette will call you again?’

  ‘I did what she wanted me to do. Maybe she won’t call again.’

  His mouth twisted into a half smile. ‘So now you only have to be careful what you dream of.’

  She returned his smile weakly. ‘Or just never go to sleep.’

  It was quiet between them. He was looking around, his gaze taking in the open laptop computer on the dining table; the creased copies of Investor’s Chronicle and Scrip — the trade journal for the pharmaceutical industry.

  She said, suddenly abrupt: ‘If you owned stock in a company, and you heard that a key director was resigning, would that worry you?’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong bloke. I don’t have much of an investment portfolio.’ He shrugged. ‘It depends, I suppose.’

  ‘But it’s not going to make you dump your stock, now is it?’

  ‘Again, it depends. When news leaked that Bill Gates was getting married, Microsoft’s price headed down. Investors were worried that marital bliss would keep him from concentrating exclusively on his job.’ Michael grinned. ‘Of course, it was a mere hiccup. Still, it shows you how sensitive the market is. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  But she was beginning to feel uneasy.

  ‘Are you okay, Isa? Are you in money trouble?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Well, good, then. What I really came over to ask you was whether you’d like to have dinner with me tomorrow night. Maybe go to the movies and see something mindless and gory all in the Christmas spirit.’

  ‘I’d love to, Michael. But I’m meeting Justin tomorrow. He still has some of Alette’s stuff and I’d like to have it back.’

  ‘I don’t trust that man.’

  ‘I’m only meeting him for a drink. It won’t take long.’

  ‘I tell you, he’s dangerous. He was obsessed with Alette and it was frightening the life out of her.’

  ‘I’m not Alette. So I should be safe. And anyway, Justin may be deluded, but that’s far from being violent.’

  Michael frowned. ‘It upsets me to think he had made Alette’s life such a misery—and got away with it without suffering any consequences. If I believed in revenge I would have done something really evil to him by now.’

  ‘You don’t believe in revenge?’

  He shook his head. ‘Revenge shackles you to the past; it stops you from living in the present. Revenge is an attempt to rewrite what has gone before. It sucks away your energy and in the end you have no reserves left over for living your life today.’

  Isa swallowed. ‘Revenge can also be an act of self-empowerment.’

  ‘No. It’s not self-empowering. Trying to change prior events is self-defeating. If something bothers you that deeply, you should deal with it decisively. Never look back.’

  He suddenly smiled. ‘As for Temple, much better to just pop him one. I did offer my services to Alette once, but she declined.’

  ‘Sir Galahad.’

  ‘That’s me. Now stop looking so serious. Here, have some more.’ Against her protestations he refilled her mug with the now tepid liquid.

  ‘It’s a hundred thousand calories in one sip, this.’

  ‘You can afford it. You’re too thin as it is.’

  ‘You can never be too thin …’

  ‘Or too rich; yes, I know. I don’t believe that.’

  She opened the front door for him and watched him walk down the garden path with that peculiar slouching gait of his. As he pulled the tiny gate closed behind him, he looked back to where she was watching him from the doorway.

  ‘When you go to Temple’s place tomorrow, be careful.’ His voice was suddenly sombre. ‘I mean it.’

  • • •

  ‘SON OF A BITCH.’

  Robert Geissinger spoke out loud. He stared at the newspaper, which was propped up on the steering wheel of his car. On the front page of the Financial Times, just above the fold, was a two-column article headed by the words PERETTE STEPS DOWN, and below this, in s
lightly smaller letters, Concerns over Bottleneck in Supply of Temple Sullivan Drug.

  Behind Geissinger a cab driver hooted impatiently as the traffic light turned from red to green. Geissinger threw the paper onto the passenger seat and let out the clutch too quickly. The car jumped forward.

  Only yesterday he had received another call from the woman who called herself Sophia. He had been short with her. Actually, he had hung up on her, convinced she was a nutter. He had not believed her when she had told him Perette was about to resign. But there it was—he glanced at the paper next to him—black on white; or rather pink. If it was in the Bible it had to be right. And what was more, it looked as if he should have paid more attention to her the first time around. Supply problems. Shit.

  His mind started racing. Who should he call to get more info on what was happening here? Rick Rhys, possibly. He had a contact at Temple Sullivan. And he should call Jensen first thing. Jensen was an influential shareholder in the company.

  He smiled grimly. Wouldn’t it be nice if he could call Sophia and ask her what else she had up her sleeve? But the lady had been coy about who she really was. And frankly, at the time he hadn’t been interested.

  He tried to recall her exact words as she had spoken to him on the phone yesterday. It wasn’t the first time he wished his firm—like a growing number of firms these days—taped all incoming calls. It made things so much simpler when disputes arose over what was said and when. Or when you wanted to check out what a woman with a strange accent had whispered into your ear.

  It was going to be pandemonium today. Jittery investors. Enquiries, lots of enquiries. And orders.

  Orders to sell.

  • • •

  ISA WAS IN SHOCK. She was sitting on the sofa in Alette’s living room. Scattered untidily on the floor around her were the financial pages of every newspaper, local and American, she had been able to lay her hands on. The headlines of the FT and the Wall Street Journal stared up at her accusingly: TEMPLE IN CENTRE OF STORM OVER CORPORATE STRATEGY; TEMPLE SULLIVAN’S ENGINE GOES INTO REVERSE.