The Woman in Silk

by R. J. Gadney

  The three-month-old pup was peering out of the Minti Car Crate.

  “Quite the little gentleman,” said Minti. “Pretty eyes for a boy.”

  “He loves you already,” said Schadzi. “Let me help you take him to your car.”

  “I have to settle up with you. For the pup—and my astrological reading. It was remarkably astute.”

  Schadzi purred.

  “All taken care of, Captain Stirling,” Minti said. “No bill.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Bertrand’s a Christmas gift. A surprise. Here—” Minti handed him a card. It was a Marks & Spencer card covered with iridescent glitter. The message inside said: Friend for Life. Sophie Peach XXX

  “We think Sophie may be a little smitten with you, Captain,” Schadzi said. “She’s a lovely girl. Your sort we think, don’t we Minti?”

  Minti fluttered her eyelashes.

  “And, guess what?”

  “A Capricorn?”

  “You guessed.”

  “I told you. I’m spoken for.”

  Minti gave him a studiously sultry look. “Don’t you go breaking her achy breaky heart.”

  “I’m going to give her back her money.”

  “You mustn’t. Anyhow, she’s no need of money. Her family set her right in spades when she left home. She’s free as air.” Minti brought a long finger to her lips. “Sssh. Forget I told you. All she needs is love.”

  “Like Bertrand,” said Schadzi.

  “Like everyone,” said Minti with a look of pity.

  They helped him set the pup’s crate in the back of the Range Rover. “Keep in touch,” said Schadzi. “Happy Christmas.”

  14

  “Hal to Bertrand. How you doing back there? Over.”

  No reply.

  It was after six o’clock and he couldn’t wait to tell Sumiko about the Christmas present he’d got for Yukio. It was Yukio who’d have to be persuaded first to come up to The Towers for Christmas. Snow of course permitting.

  He reached Carlisle to find a starlight lantern procession winding its way from the castle, across Castle Way to Castle Street and on into the city center.

  Here were the Three Wise Men mounted on camels, the Christmas carnival band: Flemish bagpipes, tabors, glockenspiel, reedy shawms, woodblocks, bells, the works. Lanterns were being held aloft. Here was the sparkling thirty-five-foot-high Christmas tree from Grizedale Forest.

  For old times’ sake, he drove to the Hallmark Hotel on Court Square near the railway station. He bought a double brandy in the bar and made his call to Sumiko.

  No reply from her cell so he called her landline.

  Yukio answered: “Mommy’s out.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Soon. Do you want me to give her a message?”

  “Actually, Yukio, I’ve got a message for you. It’s about Father Christmas.”

  “My Christmas wishes?”

  “Yes. Have you written to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what your bestest present might be?”

  “A puppy.”

  “Well. I have news for you. I have seen Father Christmas—”

  “Have you told him about me?”

  “Yes. And—”

  “He has to be a Jack Russell.”

  “That’s what Santa said.”

  “But he hasn’t seen my letter yet.”

  “He has a way of knowing. Not everything. But he knows about bestest presents.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “To me?”

  “To you.”

  “Yes. Yes. YES.”

  “Please ask mommy to call me. I have a new number. Can you write it down and give it to her?”

  “Wait. I’ll get a pencil …”

  So far so good.

  Yukio asked him to repeat the number twice. “I’ll tell her to call you. What’s the puppy’s name?”

  “He hasn’t got one yet,” Hal lied. “He’s still small. You’ll have to think of one.”

  “Akitoki,” she said. “Akitoki. It’s beautiful. It’s the bestest thing that’s ever happened in my whole-whole life. And I want to see him and you at Christmas. Can we come to your house?”

  “I hope so—” A movement in the small mirror above the telephone distracted him. No more was he listening to Yukio’s excited voice.

  In the mirror he could see two people leaving the elevator across the foyer. If he wasn’t much mistaken—Teresa and Warren. Arm in arm, deep in conversation, they were crossing the hall bound for the exit. Teresa, looking demure and furtive at the same time. In a mackintosh. Headscarf. Carrying a small bouquet of red roses. Warren, shoulders back, Man of Law, jaw set, Man of Trust, Family Solicitor. “Old thing.” And now Ladies’ Man? Teresa his bit on the side?

  “Hello?” Yukio was saying.

  He stiffened. Teresa and Warren. Well, well. Warren and Teresa.

  “Hal—can you hear me?”

  “Sorry. Yes. Mommy … it depends on where … on where you two want to spend Christmas.”

  “With you, Hal. And Akitoki. I’ll tell her we’ve got to.”

  “And give her my new cell phone number. Don’t forget. Ask her to call me. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  He went to the reception desk and asked if they had any sort of afternoon rate for rooms. “Only for a few hours, you understand? For a couple of friends of mine who want to break their onward journey north?”

  “When would that be for, Sir?” the woman asked.

  “Later this evening.”

  “Bear with me a moment.”

  While the receptionist was peering at her computer screen, tapping the keyboard with a single finger, Hal lifted a slim brochure, Romantic Lakeland Breaks, crumpled it in his fist, and edged around the desk and dropped it in the wastepaper basket. He stayed there a moment looking at the screen. There they were: had to be: 16:00–18:00 Mr. and Mrs. Peach.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve made a mistake. Couldn’t help noticing my friends have already booked. Mr. and Mrs. Peach. Damn it. I’m supposed to have paid the bill.”

  “No problem,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Peach settled it beforehand,” adding with approval, “they’re regulars, always pay in cash—with a tenner for little me.”

  “Then we’ve nothing to worry about,” Hal said. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”

  “You’re welcome. Will that be all, Sir?”

  “That’s all, thanks. Happy Christmas.”

  *

  Over the car radio the weatherman was now predicting “severe conditions in Greater Manchester and East Lancashire, over the Pennines and across Cumbria where snowfalls will be the heaviest …” Snow was already falling again in Carlisle.

  He parked the Range Rover near Marks & Spencer.

  “You stay put, young man,” he told the puppy.

  He bought cold-weather clothes: Blue Harbor Outdoor Jacket, Leather Round-Toe Lace-Up Boots, Lightweight Long-Sleeve Crew Thermal Vests, Long Wool-Blend Thermal Socks. Then he headed home.

  The snow covered the roads and verges. The roads ahead began to disappear and his headlights hit amorphous flurries of swirling white. The north-east wind buffeted the Range Rover; snowflakes surged across the wind-screen and the wipers began to squeal.

  “Get you home as soon as possible,” he told Arotiki.

  Apart from the humming engine, the air was white: the noise white, a distant ominous hiss: the sort of noise, he imagined, you might hear in outer space: the noise of your own breathing, the sound of weightlessness … s … s … s.

  Warely and Gretan assumed the look of Arctic outposts. No more could Christmas lights be seen. The hillocks and sloping heather and bracken near Moster Lees had disappeared; and the children’s roadside snowmen were fantastical North Pole sarcophagi.

  A quiet voice was speaking to him. I am Fear. I am waiting for you. Come home.

  He activated the sel
f-locking doors device. The click became an alien squeal. You’re not getting into this cage. His crouch over the steering wheel became a cower of desperation. Keep going. Don’t stop.

  The blizzard forced him to reduce speed to a snail’s pace. Where am I? Five miles from The Towers minimum. Make a plan for being stranded. Spend the night in the Range Rover with the puppy. Dog-food dinner for two. Use the cell phone.

  He settled it on his lap.

  Wrap up in the Blue Harbour outdoor jacket, boots, thermal vests and long wool-blend thermal socks. Alert the emergency services in Carlisle. Or freeze to death alone.

  The headlights were powerful: they illuminated the snow as if it were a barrier. He lowered them, flicked them up and down. It made no difference. During these brief moments of experimentation he twice turned the headlights off altogether. He was aware of other lights; lights of a car approaching. He came to a stop and started pressing the horn. Stop: he was trying to signal. The car came toward him slowly. He waved to the driver. Stop.

  It did stop, only for a brief moment, parallel to the Range Rover. He could make out the car, but couldn’t see either the driver’s or the passenger’s face. The car was a silver Mercedes. Warren’s car.

  “Warren. arren,” he heard himself shout.

  The Mercedes didn’t stop.

  He heard a small cry from the back. There was something urgent in Arotiki’s cry. That makes two of us who’re goddamn miserable.

  And bugger you, Warren. “It’s all right, Arotiki. We’re going home, boy. Don’t you worry.”

  His face felt numb. The inside of his mouth dried; he kept swallowing; but the saliva dribbled from his lips. He felt the road dip.

  “We’re almost there, Arotiki.”

  The Range Rover was crawling downward and he quickly glanced back at the dog’s crate. Arotiki had a half-transparent piece of cord in his mouth.

  Too late—the front of Range Rover struck the stone parapet of the Glendower Bridge.

  —the disconnection, the bite of the wire will kill its nervous system. Waterproofed.

  —command wire seems to be a tripwire.

  —I’m looking for a battery, a wire. The point at which I can break the circuit to the shiny detonators.

  Arotiki gave a howl of pain.

  The wire is tightening around his scrotum.

  The eyes stared directly at Hal: its pupils dilated, teeth bared, ready to attack.

  He struggled to open the door, unlocked it and jumped out, aware that something had slipped from his lap and banged his knee, falling heavily, up to his knees in snow.

  —the cell phone. The phone was in my lap. He dropped to his knees clawing the snow.

  Call me, Sumiko. Tell me, tell me where it is.

  She didn’t call.

  He could hear a voice though. And his father’s laugh: “Fear of Fear is Everything.”

  I am Fear. I am waiting for you. Come home.

  Get back to The Towers. One more hill to climb. The headlights blinded him. Disoriented, he was choking on the snow, his breaths whistling in his throat.

  I am waiting for you and little bleeding Arotiki. Arotiki will hate you for what you’ve done. You have a dead neuter on your frozen hands. I am Fear and I too have cold hands.

  He climbed back into the Range River and peered at the dog’s crate. He could see no movement. Arotiki was motionless. “Dog,” he whispered. “Dog. Don’t you die on me.”

  Arotiki was silent as the grave.

  He reversed the Range Rover and bumped very slowly across the Glendower Bridge imagining the fury of the river beneath.

  “Arotiki?”

  Not a sound.

  He stopped the Range Rover and looked into the back. The pup was staring up at him: tongue pink, nose wet, ears soft, crouching well clear from a pool of piss.

  He took a deep breath and drove up the final hundred meters to The Towers. Lights were shining in the windows. Darts of unearthly lights in the snow.

  The entrance door opened slowly and he saw the phosphorescent silhouette of a woman’s figure.

  15

  She stood in the doorway wrapped in an overcoat, scarf and black shawl.

  Hal began to unload the provisions.

  “Can I help?” Francesca offered.

  “Please.”

  She carried some of the carrier bags inside and then returned to help him with the box wrapped in brown paper containing the TV.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “No guessing. Santa Claus doesn’t like nosey Parkers.”

  “Do you believe in Santa?”

  “What d’you think?”

  “I do, Hal.”

  “He’ll be pleased to know.”

  Then Arotiki’s crate.

  “Oooh,” said Francesca. “What’ve you brought home?”

  “There’ll be four of us here from now on.”

  “Look at her …”

  “It’s a him.”

  “Is it? I never know with dogs. He’s beautiful. What’s his name?”

  “Arotiki.”

  She heaved the huge doors shut against the blizzard and bolted them.

  “Everything okay here?” Hal asked.

  “Fine enough. I was worried, mind. What with you late in getting home. The snow. It’s frightening. Being alone here, you know, I mean, it’s, well—”

  “Your mother not here, then?”

  “She isn’t, no. She’s away for the night. Gone to Haydon Bridge.”

  “In this weather?”

  “She’s helping Ryker out tomorrow. His wife’s poorly. Got a funeral at St. Cuthbert’s. Widow’s an invalid and Mom’s gone to see she’ll be okay. Are the roads terrible?”

  “Diabolical. By the way, I think I saw Mr. Warren’s car going the other way. Has he been back up here again?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s find some warmth. Oh, and I saw your mama in Carlisle.”

  “Mom?”

  “Earlier this evening.”

  “Mom. Carlisle? Your eyes must have been playing tricks. Mom went with Ryker to Moster. Been with Ryker ever since. She had to—well, don’t you ever say I told you this. She had to help refurbish a used coffin. The satin lining needed patching. Ryker’s run out of new ones so they used one that ought really to have gone in the oven at the crematory but, well, it didn’t. You know, Ryker sometimes does a little fiddle with the coffins. I’ve got a nice supper waiting for you in the kitchen. And the pup can share it, if he likes. Can’t tell you how relieved I am you’re back. I hate being here alone.”

  Once in the kitchen, she donned an apron and busied herself with the preparation of the meal. Hal settled the contented Arotiki near a window seat and opened a bottle of claret.

  Francesca’s gulps prompted chattering: “ … this is … can’t believe it, the last week before Christmas … what d’you want for Christmas? … What I want is a great big bottle of Miracle perfume. Lancôme. Can you guess what’s the book I’ve got for Mom? The Human Aura. Astral Colors and Thought Forms by Swami Panchadasi-something.”

  She wiped her hands against the front of her thighs. With her back to Hal she straightened the tight black cotton leggings, the pale blue tops underscoring the line of her small behind; then she shuffled back and forth from the oven range dancing absentmindedly with pleasure.

  “How are we feeling, Hal—bit better … are we? Mom said to remind you to take your medication.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “We’ll have a lovely Christmas, won’t we? Just the three of us. Me. Mom. You.”

  “About Christmas. We need to get some extra rooms ready.”

  She turned sharply. “Why?”

  “Guests.”

  “Guests?”

  “I’m keen to have two guests stay here for Christmas.”

  “Who?”

  He sensed the hostile curiosity in her voice.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said. “How long till supper?”

 
; “Twenty minutes and everything will be hunky-dory …”

  “Are we eating at the table here, then?”

  “No. I’ve been busy in the Library. There’s a nice fire lit. Table’s laid for two. I braved the snow to get in some holly and ivy. Even got us a sprig of mistletoe. I found an old apple tree in one of the kitchen gardens. Hey presto. Holly and mistletoe—and ivy—symbol of us sticking together no matter what …”

  “Call when you’re ready,” he said. “I’ve got a surprise in store for you.”

  “Oooh. What is little Francesca to be surprised by?”

  “You’ll see. Don’t come in till I tell you to.”

  “Hal won’t tell?” The wine was going to his head. “Naughty.” She chuckled. “Naughty Hal …”

  “And don’t you come looking.”

  “Just a peep?”

  “If you do you may wish you hadn’t. The Library’s full of scary things.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. Priscilla told me, when you were a little boy, you used to spend hours and hours alone in there. You looked at things a child shouldn’t know about, didn’t you?”

  “Like what?”

  “I promised her I wouldn’t tell you. Your mother knew everything. What she didn’t see with her eyes she saw with her mind. She said you frightened yourself in the Library and that you’d bear the scars of looking at what you shouldn’t have for the rest of your life.”

  “What was it I shouldn’t have looked at, Francesca?”

  “You father’s business for one … you know what I’m talking about. Some things should be kept out of reach of boys.”

  “Like what?”

  “Never you mind. Now you—here—leave that bottle of vino with Francesca—so Francesca can work a miracle with the casserole.”

  As he walked unsteadily to the Library, footsteps clacking in the gloom, The Towers began to commandeer his consciousness.