by Hildy Fox
It dawned on her that for the whole time Kurt had been here, in the back of her mind she was hoping, probably even praying, that Marcus would arrive on her doorstep. As much as she tried to deny it, there was no escaping the truth.
Perhaps her subconscious had got the better of her, making her feel unreasonably threatened by Kurt so that she would yearn for the company of the man she really wanted. The man she had been trying to push out of her head all day. The man on whom she had hung up just ten minutes ago.
The more she thought about it, the more she felt like just running out into the rain and screaming at the top of her lungs. Or anything that would purge the whirlpool of emotions that kept sucking her in just when she thought she was climbing free.
But she only got as far as the couch, slumping in front of the television, and letting the drone of an evening soap opera wash over her. All she wanted to do was go back in time. She wanted to cross Valley Bridge on the first day of her vacation, without a BMW in sight. No Marcus Dean, no demolition of the Miracle Cinema, just peace, rest and relaxation.
Slowly, these pleasant thoughts took hold of Lahra's mind. The droning of the TV and the rhythmic sound of the rain helped the process along. She closed her eyes, and before long she began to fall asleep. Dreams beckoned her further away from the real world. Away to a world where she had no responsibilities. A world where there was no heartbreak. A world where life really was just like the movies.
*
It was light when Lahra opened her eyes. At least, it was no longer night time. Outside the rain continued to fall from clouds that blotted any hope of brightness from beyond.
The television was still on. The regional morning news had just begun. Lahra didn't move. She remained curled up hugging the cushion that had been her sleeping partner for the night, and let the world come slowly into focus.
The fire had died, but she wasn't cold. Lazily, her eyes scanned for embers, but there were only cold ash and charred remnants where once there had been something beautiful and warm. Her mind began to draw comparisons with her life at the moment, but she turned those thoughts away before they set a trend for the day.
She shifted her attention to the television, where stories of flooding seemed to be dominating the news. Images of houses knee deep in muddy water and cars stranded on what used to be roads flicked across the screen. In areas all over the state, rivers had broken their banks and water had invaded the lives of thousands while Lahra had slept. She was thankful that Riverbank itself had only ever experienced very mild flooding, and only once every ten or twenty years at that.
She stretched and sat up, shaking off the last effects of sleep. Yes, she was definitely back in the real world.
As she showered, she began thinking of the day ahead. She would dearly love to get out of the house, to actively pursue the people whose decisions would decide the fate of the Miracle. But there was no point in doing that. She had done everything that could be done. Now it was a waiting game, in the hands of the lawyers, the politicians, the bureaucrats. No wonder she felt so helpless.
The rain was such a deterrent to going outside, too. Heavy and interminable, it served only to make her want to stay by the fire and get lost in a couple of old movies. Which the more she thought about it wasn't such a bad idea. She dressed accordingly, in comfy jeans, her favourite old hoodie, and a thick pair of socks.
It was some hours later, as Jimmy Stewart reached his lowest ebb in It's A Wonderful Life, that the phone disturbed her relative calm.
"Hello, is this Lahra Brook?" the unfamiliar voice said.
"That's right."
"This is Sally Stefano. We met briefly the other night at the Riverbank Town Hall. I'm one of the solicitors helping out with the Miracle Cinema."
"Yes of course. Thankyou for everything you're doing."
"Well, don't thank me yet. I've been trying to get an audience with Bob Moses, the State MP, for the past forty-eight hours, but I keep getting stonewalled. This morning I decided to drive out to Bircham, and pay him a surprise visit at his office with the hope of an impromptu meeting. But as soon as I parked the car I saw Moses coming out of the building with none other than our friend Marcus Dean. From the way they were laughing and cracking jokes you'd have sworn they were old school buddies or something. They got into a car and drove off together."
Lahra pictured the scene in her head. Yes, she could just see it. While she'd been passing the time in front of a video, he'd been out there. Marcus the charmer, Marcus the schemer, Marcus the bender of wills. All he had to do was delay her efforts long enough for the rain to stop, and by then it would be too late. His army of machines would mow down the Miracle and that would be that. Anger spiked her in the stomach.
"I hung around for an hour or so but they didn't come back. Moses' secretary said he'd probably be out for most of the day."
"What do you think's going on?"
"Can't say for sure, but I wouldn't trust Moses as far as I could throw him. They might have some sort of deal going, I don't know. I've put the word out to find out as much as I can, but nobody seems to know anything. Even Mayor Boyle doesn't want to speak much. I thought I'd call you, seeing as you appear to know Marcus a bit. Perhaps you can find something out."
Lahra marvelled at how much energy she had expended trying not to think about Marcus, all in vain. "I can try, if I can find him."
"Didn't you say he's a neighbour of yours?"
"Well, yes, but it's not quite that easy." Lahra looked out the watery window to Marcus’s house. There was no simple way she could know if he was home. She had no idea of his phone number. The river carved its way through the valley like a moat. "I'll do my best."
She took Sally's number and urged her to call if she found out anything else.
A moment later she was dialling the offices of Stone Rowbottom & Partners, and the receptionist was only too happy to supply his mobile number. She dialled the number, but his phone was out of range. She banged down the receiver and looked back out the window through the driving rain.
If there was anything underhanded going on, all the charm in the world wouldn't stop Lahra from bringing him down.
So she watched and waited. Waited for the first sign of life in the old Taylor house. There was no more avoiding Marcus Dean. No more hopeless romantic notions. The next time they met, sparks were going to fly.
*
By four it was dark, but not so dark as the emotions that brooded in Lahra Brook's chest. Time had passed as if it barely existed. Two movies had played and she'd hardly taken notice. If she wasn't pacing to the verandah to check for movement across the river, she was dialling Marcus’s number to no avail. She'd stoked the fireplace so high that the flames nearly leapt out into the room.
And then she saw it. A light in the downstairs window. Marcus had finally arrived home.
She ran upstairs and gathered her coat, didn't stop to turn the television off, and picked up her keys and ran outside. She was momentarily pelted with rain as she ran around to the carport, but was quickly in the Jeep and on her way.
The road wound down the hill in front of her, slick and black, almost a river in itself. As quickly as she wanted to get to Marcus’s, conditions were so bad that she had to hold back.
Soon she came to flatter ground, and in the beam of her headlights and the semi-light that the clouds allowed through, it quickly became obvious that something was amiss. Every twenty metres or so the road dipped out of sight beneath swirling water. Rivulets had formed on either side of the road, in some places resembling creeks in their own right. The Jeep advanced at an ever-decreasing rate as the ratio of road to water became less favourable by the minute. When Lahra finally reached Valley Bridge, she came to a complete stop.
In the darkness she could make out the river as it surged beneath the bridge. But how much longer the water level would stay beneath it was anyone's guess. Already the torrent was splashing occasionally against the side of the overpass, and it licked the edge o
f its banks with threatening force. Lahra watched the power of the flow in amazement, before slowly bringing her foot off the clutch and moving forward.
Her heart thumped solidly in her chest as she crossed the narrow span. At the other side the road disappeared into oversized, rain-drenched puddles, and she manoeuvred the car carefully along what she hoped was the bitumen. The gradient rose just enough to reveal white lines as she approached Mountain Bridge, and she increased her speed a little. As she crossed the bridge she looked away to where the gorged Doyle River headed towards Riverbank. A feeling of dread gripped her.
The horrible sensation followed her all the way back up into the foothills, and stayed with her as she pulled into Marcus’s drive. Something was dreadfully wrong, she could feel it. Even now as she jumped out of the four wheel drive and ran through the downpour to the cover of the house's front porch, an invisible hand seemed to be tugging her back in the other direction, back towards town. If it weren't for the sheer force of the anger driving her forward, she could so easily have been swept back.
Shaking the wetness from her hair, Lahra pressed the doorbell.
"Yes, who is it?" came the voice over the intercom.
"Lahra," she said assertively.
A few seconds later the door swung open, revealing a very dour looking Marcus. He wore a white business shirt open at the neck and suit pants, as if he still hadn't relaxed fully from his day's work. A warm light from behind surrounded him in a soft glow, and sunk his eyes into shadows.
"Would you like to come in?"
"Anything's better than standing in the rain," Lahra remarked, and despite the voice inside her that told her to go back, she stepped inside.
EIGHT
"Let me just finish this call," Marcus said, heading towards a room down the hall. "Make yourself at home, I won't be a moment."
Lahra had absolutely no intention of making herself at home. She would stand right here in the entrance hall and wait.
His indistinct voice came to her ears as he began talking on the phone, but she was more aware of the crackling of an open fire. She looked through a doorway to her left into what appeared to be a living area. She leaned and craned her neck, and could see a large, semi-circular fireplace against the far wall. Its invitation of warmth was enticing, but she didn't accept. She would wait right here.
But then something else caught her eye. On the wall beside the fire were two picture frames, one above the other. In the dimness she could make out photographs of people in them, but from here they were fuzzy and incomplete. Perhaps if she moved just a little closer...
Lahra entered the room as if she were expecting an alarm to sound. The furnishing and decoration were minimal, but so well co-ordinated that the room exuded an irresistible comfort. The polished floor was warmed by thick rugs the colour of rust. A large modern painting dominated the wall behind her. But it was the photographs, on display like a couple of windows into the private world of Marcus Dean, that drew her further in. The warmth of the fire penetrated the chill on her face and hands as she moved in close.
The picture on top was of four young men in swimming costumes, arms around one another, each holding up a shining gold medal to the camera. Even brighter than the medals were the smiles on the young men's faces. They were the smiles of people who obviously felt they could take on the world. And the brightest of the smiles belonged to the second young man from the left. It was Marcus, broad shouldered and lean, brimming with confidence even back then.
The second picture was a family portrait. The Dean family. Marcus’s father stood in the centre of the photograph, his wife to his right, Marcus to his left. Sitting in front were whom Lahra presumed to be Marcus’s younger brother and sister. Lahra's brow furrowed involuntarily as she looked from one face to the next. The most striking thing about the picture was its sterility. Every family member was completely impassive, looking into the camera as if any display of emotion would result in some sort of punishment. Lahra looked into the eyes of the patriarch, but she saw none of the seductive qualities that his eldest son displayed. There was only an emotionless determination that made her skin run cold despite the fire.
She looked at Marcus in the family portrait, stolid and sullen, then she looked at Marcus with his swimming mates. They made her feel like she had felt almost every time she had come into contact with him. Like there were two different people at work in the same skin. The carefree, charming person who had found his way to places inside her that even she didn't know existed. And the cold, uncompromising person who had the unfailing ability to strike where it hurt most.
"State distance swimming champions of 1978," Marcus said from behind Lahra, making her jump. She turned to see him entering the room, his gaze travelling past her to the photograph. "Me in the middle of chasing a dream." He stopped next to her, the soft light of the flames rimming his profile. His eyes dropped to the other photograph. "And that's me just after the dream had been taken away."
Lahra wanted to say something, to do what it was she had come here to do, but Marcus didn't seem to be fully in the room with her. His mind had transported beyond the glass frames on the wall to times and places long past.
Eventually he turned to her, his eyes almost luminous in the shifting shadows of the firelight. Who was he now, Lahra wondered. Which photograph would she deal with tonight?
"Sorry. Just talking to the boss. So how is it that you're paying me a visit? After your charming goodbye on the phone yesterday it's quite a surprise."
"I imagine you had quite a bit to discuss with your boss today," Lahra said firmly. A little more so than she had meant to be.
Marcus tilted his head a little, bemused. "Yes, I did as a matter of fact."
"All about your little tête-à-tête with Bob Moses, no doubt."
Marcus’s face went from bemused to surprised. "How did you…?"
"From what I hear the two of you were cavorting around Bircham like long lost comrades. I imagine it would have been pretty easy for somebody to see the two of you and put two and two together."
"And just what was the result of this mathematical deduction?"
"As much as I think you're a self-serving schemer, Marcus, even I didn't think you'd stoop so low as to do secret deals with politicians to get your way." The anger that had been simmering in Lahra had suddenly erupted into a fireball.
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, Marcus, don't embarrass yourself any further by playing stupid. You were seen chauffeuring the one man who can help me get a speedy intervention all over town. What did you offer him to ignore us? Are you going to renovate his house? Or maybe knock down an old one and build from scratch? Or was it a straight up cash deal?"
"Lahra, listen to yourself. Do you know what you're saying?"
"Yes I know what I'm saying!" Lahra retorted at the top of her voice, the fireball inside her consuming everything in its path. "I should have known. I should have known there was more to it when you were so content to just stand there at the Town Hall. No wonder you didn't want to say anything. Why argue your case when you've got friends in high places to make sure you get your way? How stupid was I to think that we could win this in a fair fight?"
Marcus made an attempt to take hold of her. "Lahra you don't know what you're talking about, calm down."
"Don't touch me!" Lahra screamed, brushing his reaching hands aside and moving away across the room. "And no, I won't calm down! You seem to think you can control anybody you please, but you can't. Didn't your father's attitude teach you anything? Didn't you learn from the dreams you gave away? You can't get away with this. I won't let you. I just can't believe that..." The fireball had burned all there was to burn. She suddenly felt hollow, and an overwhelming sadness enveloped her as if the only thing that could cool the burnt remains of her anger were tears. "I can't believe that you could do this to me. That I let myself..." Her voice trailed off into a silence on the edge of losing control.
Marcus moved towards her bu
t she retreated. She stumbled back out into the entrance hall and headed for the door. She swung it wide and ran into the darkness outside. The cold and the rain hit her like an elemental wall, but she didn't even notice. Her sole urge was to get away from this place as quickly as she could. And away from Marcus forever.
Her foot caught something and she fell to her knee, hitting it on something hard. Her glasses fell into a thick patch of grass. The thudding emotions inside her compelled her back to her feet and towards her car, oblivious to the pain in her leg and her suddenly impaired vision. She reached for the door and threw it open, fumbling for the keys in her coat pocket.
And then a pair of hands, strong and uncompromising, grabbed her by the arms and stopped her in her tracks. They swung her around, the dizzying motion scattering her feelings enough to allow a new one, fear, to rise. The drenching rain fell into her open mouth as her vision barely cleared enough to see Kurt Carol's face before her. She tried to pull away, but couldn't, his grip was too powerful, and then her vision swam again and the face in front of her changed. It wasn't Kurt at all. It was Marcus, the rain pelting across his anguished expression.
"Lahra, listen to me," he yelled over the weather. "You've got it all wrong! There are no secret deals with Moses."
"I don't believe you!" Lahra cried, and her fist struck out, contacting his solid chest. "I don't believe anything you say!" She kept hitting him, over and over, and all he did was stand there and take it. Each blow was weaker than the last, until eventually she could hit no more. Her energy had left her. Exhausted, she fell forward against his rain-soaked shirt, her cheek pressing against the taught muscle beneath.
From deep inside his chest, the quick beating of his heart came to her ear. Its rhythm had an immediate and strangely soothing effect. She felt his grip on her loosen, and his arms slid around her, holding her close. Now his hand was running gently over her head, cradling her tenderly, assuringly. The rainstorm surged around them stronger than ever, but in his arms, the storm inside her had begun to pass.
