Before she knew she meant to, she was heading for the auction rooms. She could be there and back in ten minutes or less. It didn't matter where he'd been, only where he was now, only that he was safe. Of course he was, why shouldn't he be? She knew how books could engross him. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd been browsing for an hour or more without realizing.
As she hurried past an enclosed shopping center a fanfare was sounding. A dangling clock like a toy castle painted gold opened its doors to let out its knights and struck six. She stared at it, past a short-sleeved security officer with hairy tattoos on his forearms, but the face said eleven o'clock. She struggled through the crowd and ran up the steps to Straub, Tessier & King.
At the top of the second flight of steps was a long bare room the size of a bungalow. Ranks of chairs sat before a podium and waited for the auction. Bookcases and trestle tables, dwarfed by the space, displayed books. Booksellers with notebooks glanced at spines, a middle-aged couple with expensive suntans idled, pouting at illustrations. She saw at once that Ted was not there. ------------------------------------219
She stepped aside as two men carried in a tea chest piled with books. There wasn't an author's name she knew. A spine said The Psychic Stream, but she'd had enough of red herrings. She went dispiritedly back toward the hotel.
A smell of hot bread made her glance into the shopping center. The figures which had sprouted from the castle while it struck six had withdrawn. Security men wandered about, murmuring to each other with radios. At the end of the hall of shops, beyond a red and yellow cart full of a rock garden whose plants were too large for the rocks, was Ted.
Or perhaps it was someone who looked like him. He was standing before the bread counter, and she could see only his back. She ran down the hall beneath the fluorescent lighting, green and mauve and pink and yellow and blue. The glittering floor looked tiled with Lurex. Shops were singing pop songs, some so faint they might have been hallucinations. Nothing was real except the smell of bread--but when she reached Ted, he looked real enough.
She was so relieved that she had to sit down, on a slippery chair of chocolate plastic. As soon as she had a chance to look at him more closely she cried, "You've hurt yourself."
He glanced at his scratched knuckles as if they weren't his. "It's nothing. Just a cat that wasn't very friendly."
Even he had never looked so disheveled before; no doubt that came of getting up so early. "Where have you been?"
"I was tracing the Undying Light people for you. They're just a fringe religious group like a hundred others. They don't know anything about the kind of thing you're looking for. They'd be scared to know."
His mood was odd, almost elated: perhaps that was insomnia. Despite her relief she couldn't share his mood, even though he seemed to believe her now, more than he ------------------------------------220
had last night. Her elbows slid from the arms of the chair, which felt thin and hollow. "What can we do now?" she said.
"Well, we mustn't tell the police about the woman we saw. Now that you've seen her, the nameless will be even more on guard."
She had already thought of that, but the confirmation made her all the more apprehensive. "Do you think they'll do something to Angela?"
"No, I shouldn't think so. They've no reason to."
"Then all we can do," she said in despair, "is hope that Gerry managed to find them."
"I wouldn't be surprised if you saw something of her soon. But no, I think we can do more than hope. Last night I thought that woman might have gone into the station to throw us off the scent, but when I thought about it later I realized that she had a ticket in her hand."
"I didn't see that. Are you sure?"
"I can see it as clearly as I see you now."
"Then we're back where we started. They could be anywhere."
"Well, not quite. I checked the trains that would have been leaving just after we lost her. I've got a list of their destinations. That's where we ought to look."
It didn't seem much of a lead, but his urgency was infectious. "We should start with the largest," he said. "That must be Edinburgh. We ought to get started at once."
He stood up quickly, and seemed impatient for her to follow. It was a relief to be led for a change; she felt too exhausted to lead. The smell of bread faded, a rush of faces which she hardly glimpsed carried her away. "I'm sure of one thing," he said. "You'll find nothing in Glasgow." ------------------------------------221
221
Twenty-seven
When Barbara found she was driving downhill she went down to the rotary and drove back to her starting point, alongside the canal. Beneath a sky that looked sun-bleached, Hemel Hempstead was a single monotonous blaze, possessed by the sun. On the canal ripples were slow lightning, swans on the banks were almost blinding. Windows and windshields charred spots on her vision, as if looking weren't already difficult enough.
She turned left near Sarah-Boo, the dressmaker's, and drove uphill again. Above the rock gardens and pebbledashed houses, the maze of cramped boxy houses closed in. She'd driven through once and had come straight back, yet the sloping streets were just as indistinguishable. She didn't know Iris's last name, for they couldn't find the clipping at the Other News; she couldn't recall the name of the street or the number of the house. She knew only that it was on a slope, which was true of most of them. ------------------------------------222
The doors paraded by like samples of paint in a book. Iris's mother had opened the green front door. Iris's mother opened the front door, which was painted red. Beyond the blue front door was Iris's mother. Barbara was appalled that she couldn't remember such a simple detail, but she hadn't realized at the time that she would need to do so.
Somewhere a lawn mower was whirring, children were throwing a striped ball across the driveways and meagre fenceless lawns, but these details seemed too real for the houses, the terraces flat as a street at the back of a stage. Perhaps some of that was the effect of her tension, but not very much. She was going down toward the rotary before she realized that she'd missed the house again, and all she could do was go round once more. There was nowhere else for her to go.
She had found nothing in Scotland. In Stirling, Dunfermline, Kirkcaldy, Perth, Dundee, Montrose, Aberdeen, and the narrow alleys that led behind the wide streets of Edinburgh, there had seemed to be nothing to find. She suspected that her encounter with the lopsided woman had scared them off to another part of the country. Barbara had gone back to her office to find none of the messages she'd hoped for, only a great deal of interest in Cherry NewtonBrown.
In more than one way that made her feel worse. The interest in the Newton-Brown novel was considerably greater than she had anticipated, which meant that her judgment was slipping. That was hardly surprising under the circumstances, but she couldn't make excuses to herself. She had been hoping to conduct the Paul Gregory auction from London--though it would be less difficult to conduct it in New York, she didn't think she could bear to leave the country as things were--but now she would have to go to New York to show the Newton-Brown to publishers, for it was too important a novel just to send. She was booked ------------------------------------223
to leave in less than a week, but she couldn't make up her mind to leave until she'd tried to question the one person she knew had seen Angela.
The glaring shadowless houses trundled by. Television aerials were gleaming cracks in the blue gloss of the sky. Doors said yellow, orange, purple, and meant nothing. The children were still catching the ball, a striped cutout which somehow was bouncing. Perhaps she could ask them where Iris lived, except that there was no reason why they should know. Their parents might, but why should their parents tell Barbara? They had no reason not to be suspicious of her. They would back into their shells, beyond the glossy doors, the neatly gathered curtains. In some of the impeccably symmetrical gaps between curtains, dolls were standing. All at once she remembered, and was searching.
She had to ma
ke a fourth circuit before she saw the purple gleam. Until she was at the end of the lawn she couldn't be sure--the gleam was bright as a knife--but yes, it was the lustre ballerina. She turned off the ignition and sat for a few minutes. Did she really want to know what the cult might be doing to Angela? Could she bear not to know?
As she ventured along the path toward the house she wobbled; Ted caught her by the elbow. She thought someone peered out of an upstairs window, but when she glanced up, there was nobody. Perhaps it had been Iris's mother, dodging out of sight of the unwelcome visitors, for they had to ring three times before Maisie came to the door. She frowned up at Ted to let him know she wasn't daunted. "What do you want?" she said to Barbara.
"I wondered if I could have a word with you."
"I'm afraid it isn't convenient. I'm very busy. Looking after my daughter," she said with heavy emphasis. ------------------------------------224
Perhaps she felt that was cruel, for she said more gently, "Was it only me you wanted to speak to?"
There was no point in lying. "I really wanted to speak to Iris."
"Well, you know I sympathize with you, but I'm afraid that isn't possible. For one thing, my husband wouldn't want you to."
"He works near home, doesn't he?" Ted said. "Shall I go and get him? Perhaps he would change his mind."
Barbara wished he had kept quiet, however helpful he meant to be; after what she'd told him of George on the way, he ought to realize he was making it more difficult for her. He had distracted Maisie, who said, "Are you another reporter?"
"No, he's just a friend of mine. The reporter you met is trying to infiltrate the group that stole your daughter, and we've been searching as well. We've come close, we traced them up to Scotland, but now I have to go to America without even knowing where they've taken my child."
"If it upsets you so much you shouldn't go."
"It isn't as simple as that," Ted interrupted. "People depend on her for their livings. If she doesn't go she might just as well give up her job."
"I think she's all right, she keeps phoning me. I only want to know what they might do to her," Barbara said, and felt ready to weep.
Perhaps Maisie was afraid that Barbara would faint or break down outside her house. Several children were watching from the doorstep opposite. "Come in and sit down for a few minutes," Maisie said. "At least I can give you a cup of tea before you go."
Nothing had changed in the pin-striped front room. Only Ted made it seem to have shrunk. Maisie was murmuring upstairs; Barbara thought she heard, "Don't come down." ------------------------------------225
She must already have made the tea for herself and Iris, for almost at once she wheeled in a tea cart with cups and a pot. She seemed wary of Ted, and Barbara could understand why: she was small beside Barbara--Ted could have picked her up with one hand. Still, the idea of fearing Ted was laughable. "How is Iris?" Barbara said.
"Better than she was. Some days she's quite chatty. I want to keep her that way."
"We've found out more about the people who stole her." Ted was gulping his tea as if he couldn't feel how hot it was; the cup was a small fragile shell in his hand. "We know what one of them looks like. If we described her, that might shock your daughter into remembering."
"I don't want her shocked at all." Maisie couldn't be more dismayed than Barbara; what on earth did he think he was doing? Before Barbara could interrupt, Maisie said, "How do you know what this person looks like?"
"Because she followed us in Glasgow," Ted said.
"Followed you?" The cup in Maisie's hand jerked, spitting. "But then they could have followed you here!"
"Well," Ted began, and seemed in such an insensitive mood that he might even have agreed with her if Barbara hadn't intervened. "The woman knows we saw her," she said, "In fact, we nearly caught her. I'm sure they won't dare follow us again."
"How do you know? There could be someone you haven't noticed."
"I'm sure there isn't," Barbara said, and wondered if there was. "But look, we'll leave as soon as we can if our being here makes you nervous. Surely you could let me have five minutes with Iris. Of course I won't shock her, I only want to talk to her. Ted will stay downstairs, won't you, Ted?"
Maisie didn't look at him, which was just as well, for he ------------------------------------226
seemed unwilling to comply. "You've already seen her once," she said.
"But there's something I didn't think to ask her." All at once Barbara was happy to continue arguing, in fact anxious to keep the conversation going, for she and Ted were nearer the hall than Maisie was, and Barbara could hear what the mother was missing: someone was coming downstairs. "I should have asked her if there was a child who kept mentioning her mother. I don't know if Gerry Martin told you--she was the reporter who brought me here--but Angela, that's my daughter, keeps phoning me. If she trusted your daughter more than the others she might have mentioned me."
She was babbling, not even sure if she believed all of what she was saying, but the footsteps were descending, padded no doubt by carpet and slippers, and Maisie didn't hear. "I've shown her the photograph you left," Maisie said. "She would have said if your daughter had mentioned you."
"Not if she didn't recognize the photograph. Presumably she wouldn't know Angela by name, presumably as far as Iris was concerned she didn't have one. If I ask her directly she might remember," Barbara said, and made a grab for Ted. She was too late; he stood up quickly and opened the door as the footsteps reached the hall. "Hello, Iris," he said.
Barbara could have kicked him. No doubt he meant to catch Iris before her mother hid her safely away, but what must the already disturbed girl be seeing? A door had opened in her home, a burly stranger was waiting for her--it was no wonder that she flinched back, staring up at him.
Maisie ushered her into the room, well away from him. "You know this lady. She brought the picture of her little ------------------------------------227
girl to show you. This gentleman is a friend of hers," she said, glaring at Ted.
When Iris was settled--she sat as if she were made of china, afraid of breaking--Barbara tried to question her gently, despite her mother's open disapproval. But the girl seemed unable to look away from Ted, and the longer she stared the more visibly nervous she grew. Barbara wanted to hear that the cult hadn't tried to destroy Angela, that having captured her was enough, but how could she frame her question so that Iris wouldn't be reminded of whatever had made her break down? Ted must be growing restless as Iris gazed at him, for he stood up and leaned beside the window. That only distracted Iris more, made her shrink further into herself. She hadn't said a word. "Ted," Barbara said as calmly as she could, "will you wait for me outside?"
"He needn't wait for you. You can both go." Maisie was watching her daughter's hands crawling over each other in search of comfort, crawling more and more desperately. "I'm sorry, I won't listen to any more. I'll ask her your question as soon as I think I can. I've still got your address."
Halfway round the two-way rotary Barbara's head began swimming. Ted stopped the car beyond the rotary just in time for her to stagger to the grass verge and vomit her cup of tea. Eventually he got out of the car and stood by her, watching her so calmly he must mean to be reassuring. When she felt able to return to the car he drove more slowly through the sluggish waves of heat toward the highway. "I know I ruined that for you," he said, then he smiled at the unstable landscape. "But I've thought of something else I can do." ------------------------------------228 ------------------------------------229
229
Twenty-eight
As Iris glanced at the mirror on the dressing table she saw movement behind her in the sunlit bed, a grublike writhing beneath the sheets. It was about to nudge the sheets aside, and then she would see what it was. For a moment she felt as she'd felt yesterday--her limbs wanted to clasp her so tightly that she would be squeezed too small for anything to reach--then she realized that the movement was only the shado
w of the curtains that was trailing over the bed. She was home now. Nothing could harm her. The bad wasn't here, even though it had come visiting.
When she reached for the top drawer her hand faltered. In the street a small boy was singing a song, blurring the words like a radio whose batteries were failing; down the hill someone was clipping a hedge, the sound tinier than scissors; inside her room the sunlight kept everything still, ------------------------------------230
and yet she was afraid it might not be able to do so for long, not now that the bad had seen where she was.
But that was why she had to search. The thought jerked her into motion, made her open the drawer. There was nothing but her father's underwear, nothing lay in wait for her as she leafed hastily through. Of course the address wouldn't be in there; the woman had given it to Iris's mother. She knelt down and pulled out the next drawer. She had to be quick, before her mother found out what she was doing. Her mother wouldn't let her if she knew.
Perhaps her mother was right sometimes. Yesterday she had told Iris to stay upstairs until the visitors had gone. Iris had crept downstairs--she wasn't a child to be told to stay in her room, she felt as if she never had been, she was piecing herself together out of the present, having forgotten almost the whole of her past--and then the door had opened, and the huge bearded man was there.
As soon as she saw his eyes she had known what he was. All the nameless had that hidden look that nobody else could recognize, that look as if something had eaten them away from within until they were shells of themselves. She'd begun to shrink into herself at once. The worst of it was that he'd called her by her name, which she had only just started to believe was hers. The nameless wouldn't even let her have her name to cling to, to drag herself out of their reach.
She had to tell the woman what he was, the woman who was looking for her daughter. She could think of nobody else to tell; certainly her mother wouldn't want to know. "You're home now, Iris. Don't think about those things." She wanted to believe that Iris had forgotten, and perhaps one day Iris would.
The Nameless Page 18
