In the Still of the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘But it doesn’t have the impact a scene shot in a real location does,’ Sean said drily. ‘How are Benny and his stunt drivers doing?’

  ‘They’ve spent hours lining everything up, just for two minutes screen time.’

  ‘It will be worth it! What rewriting do you want me to do, then?’

  ‘Scene 6 – no Annie, no Derek.’ She explained and Sean frowned.

  ‘It isn’t like Derek. You say you’ve tried ringing his flat?’

  ‘Constantly. No reply.’

  ‘Maybe he spent the night somewhere else?’ Sean’s eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. ‘With Marty Keats, probably – he’s seeing her, isn’t he? Get your girl to ring her. Try wardrobe first, and if she isn’t at work try her home number. And don’t forget you and I are having lunch with BG.’

  ‘Oh, my God, I had forgotten,’ groaned Harriet. Billy Grenaby had ordered them to lunch out of the blue, having picked up on rumours, no doubt, that there were personal problems among the actors on the series. He interested himself in everything, even down to the tiniest morsel of gossip. ‘I’m so crazy, with all this hassle. It’s a wonder I remember my own name!’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock. I’ve just got an hour and a half before I have to hand over to Flora, then. OK, can you do that rewrite quickly, Sean, so that I can approve it before we have to leave? I’ll get on with Benny and the boys.’

  It didn’t take Sean twenty minutes to rewrite the scene. Harriet glanced through it, nodded.

  ‘That’s fine. Still no sign of Derek, though, and Marty Keats isn’t at work today, nor is there an answer from her home number.’ Her eyes were worried.

  Sean eyed her shrewdly. ‘Come on, Harriet – what’s bothering you?’

  She made a face. ‘Annie is home alone. What if Derek turns up there, trying to get money out of her?’

  Sean’s face tightened. ‘I should have thought of that.’ He took his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘We’ll soon find out.’ He dialled Annie’s number. ‘Hello? This is Sean Halifax. Can I speak to Annie, please? What? What do you mean, not there? Where the hell is she?’ He listened, then said tersely, ‘Well, when she gets back tell her to ring either me or Harriet. We’ll be on this number.’ He gave the number of his mobile phone. ‘And tell her it’s urgent.’

  As he rang off, Harriet asked anxiously, ‘Annie wasn’t at home? She did say she was going to the hospital to see her mother.’

  ‘Maybe she’s still there, then.’ Sean dialled again. ‘I’ll get the hospital’s number from Directory Enquiries.’

  He got the number and rang the hospital. After talking to the ward sister he rang off and looked at Harriet, frowning. ‘She saw her mother, and left there over an hour ago. What the hell can she be doing?’

  ‘Perhaps she stopped off on the way home to do some shopping?’

  ‘I’ll kill her,’ said Sean, his voice rough. ‘She’s supposed to be resting, not wandering around shops.’

  Mike Waterford was eavesdropping. ‘Find Annie, and you’ll probably find Fenn,’ he drawled mockingly. ‘They go back a long way, don’t they, Harriet? That’s why she got him that part; it was a pay-off, to make sure he held his tongue. They’ve been an item, secretly, for years. I’m told she even had his baby.’

  Sean and Harriet stiffened, exchanged startled, shaken looks. How on earth had he got hold of that story?

  Mike drawled on, ‘I always knew she was a bit in the kinky line; if I so much as looked at her, she nearly threw a fit.’

  ‘She’s got good taste, that’s all,’ Sean said through his teeth.

  Mike gave him a sarcastic smile. ‘Charming. No, the reason she didn’t fancy me was because she knew I’d want a normal relationship with her. She’s the type that only fancies older men. The Electra complex, that’s what they call it, isn’t it? Always looking for a substitute Daddy.’ He flicked a mocking look at Sean again. ‘Tough, Halifax. You’re not quite old enough for her. You haven’t got a prayer.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Waterford,’ Sean said savagely. ‘There’s a law about spreading scandal, especially when what you’re spreading is a lie. Annie never had an affair with Derek and she never had his baby. If Annie sues you for spreading foul lies about her, it could cost you a lot more than money. Billy would sack you for damaging the series, for a start, and your fans might not be so keen on a hero who goes around spreading spiteful lies about Annie Lang.’

  Mike didn’t back down, he gave a defiant, cynical grin. ‘Oh, but it isn’t a lie – I got it from a very good source! Fenn himself!’

  ‘Derek told you?’ Harriet was appalled. ‘But Mike, it isn’t true, believe me – I know for certain that Derek was lying.’

  ‘He actually told you, himself?’ Sean slowly asked, frowning, and Mike hesitated, then shrugged.

  ‘Well, no, actually it was Marty Keats in wardrobe who told me, but she’s been sleeping with Fenn, and she swears he told her.’

  ‘Well, one of them lied,’ Sean bit out. ‘So don’t go around repeating it, unless you want to get out of the series.’

  ‘Don’t you threaten me, Halifax,’ Mike Waterford said. ‘I’m not afraid of you!’

  Sean turned on him aggressively, dark red with temper, his hands clenched into fists, and Mike looked startled, swung away, and walked off, hurriedly.

  Harriet groaned. ‘It must be all round the studio by now. I’m going to have to tell Billy, you know. If I don’t and he finds out he’ll kill me.’

  As they drove through the forest, Annie felt a strange stirring inside herself, as if she was waking from a long winter dream to find spring beginning. The day was chilly but bright, sunlight pierced the forest glades, gleamed among the dark trees, lit the vistas like searchlights, and when they parked outside the old house and walked up the flagged path she saw snowdrops among the withered grass like flakes of snow.

  Johnny unlocked the front door, which creaked as it swung open. Annie’s heart was beating hard under her ribcage, as if trying to crash through it.

  She walked into the house and heard him close the door behind them. They were alone in the house again and she was trembling.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he said, concerned. ‘I’ll make a fire in the grate.’

  ‘No, really …’

  ‘It won’t take five minutes. It’s laid, ready. I just have to put a match to it.’

  He knelt down in front of the cold hearth and she had a vivid flash of déjà vu. He had knelt down like that, eight years ago, in front of that hearth, on a cold dark day in winter, and lit this fire for her, and they had lain down in front of it and made love with firelight playing over their naked bodies.

  A deep sadness welled up inside her at the memory. The lost happiness shone like the sun piercing the forest. It had gone, it could never return; she would never be eighteen again, or as wildly, inexpressibly in love.

  Johnny used the old bellows hanging up by the fire to blow life into the wood, which began to crackle, a tongue of flame licking hot and red up the black chimney.

  He stood up. ‘Stay in front of the fire and I’ll make us some tea.’ He smiled at her and unshed tears burned behind her eyes, then he went out and she sat down on the faded old hearth rug and stared into the fire, seeing pictures in the flames. She automatically began feeding the fire with the wood kept in the brass scuttle on the hearth.

  She remembered the night when a mouse had crept out from its hole while they were making love and had sat there watching them with bright, round eyes.

  How many hours had they spent here, talking, dreaming, planning their lives together, making love?

  She got up, finding the memories too painful, and began prowling along the bookshelves looking at the books; they smelt of damp and when she reached down a copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury the leather was spotted with green mould and the pages breathed a graveyard air.

  She flicked the pages and stopped at a poem by William Blake.

  ‘“O rose, thou art sick �
��”’ It had been one of her recital pieces at drama school. She knew it by heart, did not need to read the words on the mould-spotted page. She had tried to forget it since; it reminded her too much of Roger Keats. ‘“His dark secret love does thy life destroy,”’ she said aloud, shuddering; but Roger Keats had never loved her, had only wanted the sadistic pleasure of humiliating her, hurting her, watching her suffer.

  Johnny came back, carrying a tray of tea things that rattled as he put it down on the table. Quickly closing the book, she slid it back into place on the shelf and turned, feeling her whole body quicken into life just because he was in the same room.

  Johnny gravely said, ‘You don’t still think of him, do you? After all these years? Forget him, Annie.’

  She was taken aback – could he still read her mind, even after their years apart? It stunned her.

  ‘I wish I could forget him,’ she whispered. ‘But I can’t, because he hasn’t gone away, Johnny. He’s still around, sending me scary, threatening Valentine’s cards ever since.’

  He stared at her, his dark blue eyes wide with shock. ‘Scary, threatening cards? What are you talking about?’

  She wished she hadn’t mentioned it; she had wrecked the atmosphere. Suddenly the house felt different, or was it just her who had changed?

  ‘Oh … it’s a long story,’ she muttered, and sat down in one of the fireside chairs, crouched on the edge, holding her cold hands out to the fire, which was well away by then, the log on top crackling with resin, flames all along it, giving out a sweet apple scent.

  She saw that the old Minton tiles framing the fire had cracked even more since they were last here, but their beauty was undiminished.

  ‘I’ve got all the time in the world to listen, Annie.’ Johnny poured her tea, put sugar in it, brought it to her, smiling at her.

  She took the cup between her palms and held it, eyes half closed, grateful for the warmth of the hot liquid, while she told him about the cards, about the burglary on St Valentine’s Day this year, about the rose on her pillow, the Valentine’s card with its chilling message.

  ‘I rang the police, but they wouldn’t take me seriously because nothing had been taken, and there was no sign of forced entry.’

  ‘How can you be sure it was Keats who broke in, who sent you these Valentines?’ Johnny asked slowly. ‘You must have plenty of admirers.’

  ‘I recognised the printing on the card; I got the first one the year after I got Roger Keats the sack. There were a couple of dozen Valentine’s cards that year, but I knew that was from him – I don’t know why, I just felt this weird shiver down my spine. The others were from fans, and they’re often over the top, a bit soppy, but this was different.’

  Johnny watched her, frowning, and she met his eyes, and felt her throat close up at the fixity of his stare.

  How did he feel about her now? He couldn’t feel the same, not after all this time. Could he?

  Her heart beat thickly, her head swam, she looked away, into the fire.

  It was a minute before she could go on. ‘I rang the police. They just laughed at me, said they were sure I would remember who had a key, but I know nobody had one, except my cleaner and she would never let anyone else use hers. But Sean is going to track Roger Keats down and –’

  ‘Sean?’ Johnny sharply interrupted, and she gave him a startled look.

  ‘Yes, Sean Halifax … the scriptwriter on our series. He was a policeman.’

  Johnny’s face tightened, his pallor intensifying. She picked up anger inside him and blinked, then guessed what was wrong. After what had happened to him, Johnny probably didn’t want any contact with the police, and who could be surprised at that?

  ‘Anyway,’ she said uneasily, ‘he’s investigating it for me. He’s going to track Roger Keats down and put the fear of God into him.’ She gave a quivery little smile. ‘And believe me, Sean could do it. He’s a very tough customer. He must have been a good copper. And he’s a damned good writer.’

  ‘You like him?’ Johnny’s voice was low and expressionless, but Annie picked up something else in his face.

  ‘Sean’s OK,’ she said, suddenly flushing. Was he jealous? Did he suspect she and Sean were more than just colleagues? She drank her tea and stood up, put the cup on the table. ‘I suppose I’d better get back now. It’s been nice to see the house again. I’m sorry you will have to sell it.’

  Johnny was in her way. He looked down at her, his eyes dark; she saw the flames reflected in them, dancing on the glazed iris like the flames of hell. Annie stared into them, breathless.

  He touched her cheek with the fingertips of one hand. ‘Annie … Annie …’

  She was hypnotised, transfixed, listening to that voice, that husky, familiar, beloved voice, aware of the track of those caressing fingers. Her body had hungered for the remembered touch for so long.

  Johnny groaned. ‘I can’t believe we’re here together, here, in this house, in this room. Has time stopped? Did time ever move at all? Did I dream everything that’s happened since the last time we were here together? Maybe we’ve been here, in this room, all that time – and everything else was the dream, and this was real.’

  She turned her face up, yearning; their mouths met. She ran her arms round his neck and her body moved closer, closer. Desire took over and she was helpless to fight it, didn’t even want to; she wanted only the satisfaction of this terrible need, which had been frustrated for so long. She knew Johnny felt exactly the same. Her body knew everything about Johnny. He might have been away for eight years, but now they were together again their blood spoke, their flesh melted together.

  They didn’t talk any more.

  It had the measured movements of a ritual, a dance for two; they slowly sank down on to the rug, in front of the fire, as they had the first time they made love here, and undressed each other slowly, touching, kissing, exploring.

  As she felt his hard flesh enter her, she cried out in as much pain as pleasure, and he paused, looking down at her.

  ‘Did I hurt you, darling?’ he asked as he had asked that first time, his voice surprised, shaky.

  ‘No, it’s just so … Oh, Johnny, Johnny, I need you, so much.’

  ‘There must have been other men since …’

  ‘No,’ she admitted huskily, ‘I couldn’t, never, I didn’t want anyone else but you.’

  He looked down into her eyes as if he couldn’t believe what she had said.

  ‘Nobody at all?’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t forget you, Johnny.’

  He kissed her, groaning. ‘Annie, Annie.’ Slowly he began to move inside her while their mouths clung; she moved with him, her knees clasping him, her arms holding him tightly so that they were one body moving to one driving rhythm which quickened and deepened to a climax so shattering that Annie actually lost consciousness for a second or two, and came back to awareness to hear herself making wild, animal sounds as her body slowly shuddered to rest.

  As she slackened, a sadness came down over her, and she gave a sob, began to cry, her face buried on his shoulder.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ he asked, trying to look at her, but she burrowed into him, refusing to let him see her face.

  ‘There’s something I must tell you, Johnny, don’t be angry with me, please don’t be angry, I was so unhappy because you’d gone away and left me, I couldn’t fight them.’

  His hand gently stroked her tumbled hair, he held her closer, their bodies still entwined. ‘Sshh. Don’t cry. I’d never be angry with you, Annie, I love you too much.’

  She moistened her lips and plunged. ‘Johnny, when you went away, I was … I was … going to have a baby.’

  She felt his body tense, heard the intake of his breath, and hurried on, her words tumbling out feverishly, desperate to confess to him and get it over with, because she couldn’t bear to lie to him, especially after making love like that. Once they had known everything about each other, she wanted to be that way again with him, op
en and innocent and utterly truthful. ‘But you vanished and I was scared,’ she said with a smothered sob. ‘And my mother was so angry with me, and you didn’t come back, and Derek Fenn wanted me in his TV series … and … they made me do it, Johnny. They made me … get rid of my baby.’

  She heard him swearing, his face against her hair, his swift breathing stirring the pale strands on her temples.

  She was afraid to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, Johnny, I should have been stronger, I should have fought them, but I was alone, and scared,’ she whispered, trembling. ‘If I’d known you would be back one day I wouldn’t have listened, but I thought you had left me for good. They argued and argued with me, and I was so tired and miserable I finally said, “Oh, alright, yes,” and then they rushed me off to this clinic before I could change my mind. I was in and out in two days, and that was when I had a nervous breakdown. I just went to pieces for weeks after that. I stayed in bed and cried and cried.’

  Johnny didn’t move or say a word, but she felt his pain, and his anger, in the tension of the warm body lying against her, in the stiffening of his shoulder and arm, the muscles tight and hard with a desire to strike someone.

  Billy Grenaby had the ratings in front of him. ‘Still climbing. Well, a few points up. That’s fine, even a couple of points is good if it’s going in the right direction.’ He leaned back, his spatulate hands on the leather-topped desk which was the centre of the huge room on the top floor of the Midland TV production company building down by the river. From the huge windows on two sides of the room you got amazing views: the grey, crowded waterway of the Thames, the city roofscape, the towers and church spires. When the sun was bright, Venetian blinds filtered the light, but today they were rolled up, showing the wintry mother-of-pearl sky.

  Billy’s eyes skewered Harriet. ‘Now, what’s this I hear … you’ve got problems?’