The Siren's Sting

by Miranda Darling

  20

  A sleek yacht with a gleaming ebony hull steamed out to sea under a charcoal-wash sky. Her sails were black and she cut towards the open sea with purpose despite the weather, despite the fact that she was the only boat going out that afternoon. The autumn storms had already begun to pound the coast of the Hebrides and there was a freezing wind. Aboard the boat, a party of people, all beautifully dressed, all in black. Some huddled around the wheel in their woollen overcoats, others had gone inside to the warm light. A sailor handed around a silver tray of whisky: short measures in simple pewter cups—the same colour as the sky. His feet were sure as the boat bucked. Nobody refused a glass.

  His name was murmured by every drinker, whispered, mouthed, declared. Faces were pale but no one was seasick. It was Henning’s funeral and Stevie found it hard to raise her eyes and look at the horizon. They stung from hours of weeping, the lids chafed red. She had lined them in black although she knew they would run to mud when the fresh tears began to fall.

  Somewhere out at sea, the schooner slowed; the faraway cliffs loomed like monuments, like a magnificent tombstone. Henning would have liked the view. A requiem began to play, not competing with the howling wind, but almost dancing with it, using its power to soar higher into the air, to spread further its lament. The dear body was ashes now and Iris held them in a stone jar. She was as pale as milk and thin as a blade; it seemed even the wind might snap her. It was unnatural to survive your child and Stevie would not have wished that fate on anyone.

  Iris wore a black fur collar on a black coat, floor-length, with a double breast of onyx buttons. On her left shoulder she wore a large jewelled panther. The black netting she wore over her eyes did not hide enough of the sorrow in them. She stood at the stern, downwind of the gale, cradling the jar in her left arm. She removed her glove and the wind took it, spinning it twice before dropping it into the sea. Henning’s mother opened the jar and took out a handful of ash. She lifted her fist to the sky and then released it. The wind caught the matter and lifted it, spread it like music, carried it far. Henning had returned to the universe, to God, to eternity, in handfuls of ash. His remains made a cloud in the sky darker than all the others, before the wind tore it to strips and set him free.

  Stevie began to sob, this time uncontrollably. She kicked off her ballet slippers and half ran to the prow of the boat, her bare feet clinging to the wet wooden deck. She needed to be away from the other mourners. The tulle in her black ballgown billowed up around her and she fought it down with freezing hands. On top, she wore a cable-knit jumper that she had dyed black, her broken arm in a sling. The jumper did little to keep out the wind, but Stevie didn’t feel a thing.

  She sat at the prow, her arms on the railing, her bare feet hanging over the side. The tip of a wave caught them for a moment, then fell back. Alone and unseen, she opened her mouth in a silent scream of agony, tears pouring down her face. She thought she might die. Henning. There had been another boat—a ferry, a frozen lake, a rope of gold, a beginning . . . And now the end had come and it was on a boat again but everything was different. Too soon, too late. The chop and spray of the waves wet her through but she could not move. Nothing mattered anymore; the world for her was dead.

  She looked back at Iris, still standing on the stern. She watched as Henning’s mother reached up to her chignon and pulled out the comb that held it. Her hair tumbled down and blew out with the wind as she shook it free.

  Stevie stared; she suddenly remembered the Sardinian tradition: Sciogliere i capelli al cimitero significa vendetta. When a woman lets her hair down by the fresh grave of her son or father or husband, she is asking for revenge. Someone at the funeral must undertake to carry it out. Did Iris know what she was asking when she took out her comb? The grieving woman turned and caught Stevie’s gaze. She held it for a second before turning away—but a second was enough for Stevie to know what Iris wanted. It was what she wanted too.

  With no words, someone placed a heavy black overcoat around her slim shoulders. It was David Rice. He sat down beside her on the tossing prow and encircled Stevie with his arms. He held her so tightly she could hardly breathe and she was grateful. She felt that David’s arms were the only thing holding her together right now, the only thing stopping her from jumping into the sea, from evaporating like her lover into clouds of cinder. She put her exhausted head on David’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Her face was streaked black, but the tears had dried.

  Rice let her rest there a moment then reached into the pocket of the overcoat and drew out a small red leather box. ‘This came for you this morning.’

  Stevie sat up and opened her eyes. The box was from Cartier. ‘Who . . .?’

  Rice shook his head. ‘It came by courier direct from the shop.’

  Stevie took the box gingerly. In the risk assessment business, mystery gifts were to be treated with extreme caution. Inside was a jewelled brooch in the shape of an owl. Underneath the brooch was a small scrap of blue tissue paper in the shape of an H. Stevie picked it up with trembling fingers; it disintegrated with her touch. She looked up at Rice, her lungs so tight she could hardly breathe. ‘It’s from Henning,’ she gulped, her head spinning now. ‘It’s a message.’ She paused to take a slow breath. Could it be possible? She had lain next to the bleeding body, seen the screaming headlines about the fatal goring in the Spanish papers—but the owl . . . ‘He’s not dead, is he?’ she whispered finally.

  Rice put a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t do this to yourself, Stevie. It will only hurt twice as much. Henning is dead. You have to grieve, then move on.’

  But Stevie was no longer listening. The blood and the wind in her ears rushed out all coherent thoughts.

  If . . . Why? How?! When? Where? WHY?

  The boat was coming in to port now and darkness was falling around them. In the half-light, the black ship with its black sails was almost invisible. Did Iris know? She had to find her. Henning’s mother was walking down the gangplank, a handsome older man with thick silver hair was supporting her with a hand under her elbow. Stevie called out to her. Iris turned and her veiled eyes met Stevie’s, then she looked away and kept on walking. Stevie rushed to the stern of the boat, but Iris had disappeared into the night.

  21

  Stevie did not know what to do, and half the time she felt she was going mad. Had she imagined the pale blue H made of tissue? But there was the owl brooch, sitting in its box. David disagreed, but to her it was proof that Henning was not dead. Who else could have sent it? No one else had a reason to. He wanted her to know. Stevie couldn’t bring herself to wear the jewelled bird; her mind was a mass of contradictions and confusion that drove her wild and would not let her sleep. She was bewildered—elated that Henning was alive, and angry that he was pretending to be dead; she was afraid of why he had to pretend, afraid of how bad his injuries were, guilty that he had been hurt trying to save her, and unsure if she would ever see him again . . .

  David Rice had opened his London flat to her, and she was to stay there as long as she wanted. Stevie knew it was his sanctuary and the offer meant a lot to her. Unfortunately, David was in Herefordshire; minor health complications had him on a forced rest cure, uncertain of a return date. Stevie roamed the rooms of his flat—even a few months ago, she would have been fascinated by every object in them, little clues to the private life of her boss that he kept so well hidden. But now it only made her more melancholy, reminded her of how close she had come to losing David too. Her world was in turmoil and nothing felt as it should be. And so she mostly stayed inside and ate almost nothing, drank only camomile tea with honey, or whisky. She hunted down Iris’ telephone numbers and called them at different times throughout the day, but none of them were ever answered. Mostly, she sat on the Persian rug and watched the rain, and the cars moving about on the street below. When she did leave the flat, Stevie wandered the streets for hours, aimlessly, most often drawn to the river with its flat grey face and slow-moving traffic.


  One day, standing in a mist of cloud and drizzle, Stevie found herself in front of the decommissioned submarine that Lord Sacheverel used as his office. It was besieged with reporters, cameramen, vans with radar dishes from a dozen different news services. They were lying in wait, thought Stevie. She stood there, the drizzle now gentle rain seeping through her cotton jacket, trickling downher neck, waiting with them. She remembered the party at his palazzo, the terrible frescoes of Nessus and Deianeira and the burning Heracles. She thought she understood now how Deianeira must have felt when she realised what she had done to her husband . . .

  The door to the submarine opened and Sacheverel’s white head appeared. He surveyed the crowd without interest and opened a large black umbrella. The pack pounced on him, baying like beagles, but Stevie did not stay to watch. She turned and kept walking downriver.

  The next morning the headlines screamed their outrage at Lord Sacheverel and the Somali pirate connection: investigations would be pursued, pulpits were pounded, politicians made statement after statement of condemnation, all signifying, to Stevie, nothing. None of it seemed to matter anymore. It was as if the events of the last month had happened to someone else. She read about the arrest of Vaughan Krok. Federal agents had swooped on him at his Spanish palace and taken him away to an undisclosed location of indeterminate jurisdiction. A picture of him from the Reuters stringer showed him with a pillowcase over his head, a hooded bird of prey stumbling in chains, freckled red forearms and pale polo shirt identifying him as clearly as wing markings. Stevie felt a tiny flare of satisfaction, but the feeling died as quickly as it had come.

  Marlena’s wedding invitation caught her eye. It was sitting on the mantelpiece, embossed gold on thick card. It had come by courier and Marlena had written in thick black letters across it PLEASE COME, STEVIE, and signed it with an M. Stevie stared at it for a long time, then put it aside. Marlena had wanted to postpone the wedding in deference to Henning’s accident, but Stevie had begged her not to. Who knew what Skorpios could dream up to stop the union going ahead in that time? Marlena and Aristo had to marry as quickly as possible. The wedding was in two days’ time, in Monaco, but Stevie knew she wouldn’t go. She did not like to think about love right now, when her own heart was in such turmoil. Happy Marlena who was so sure of her affections, and happy Aristo who had found the love of his life.

  On the day before their wedding, Stevie found herself walking through Hyde Park, trying to ignore the signs of an early autumn this year. If Henning was alive, she thought, he would be badly hurt. She had seen his injuries with her own eyes in the bullring. However, it seemed that he could communicate if he was able to arrange for the owl brooch to be sent to her. This was a good sign—unless the brooch was not from him at all, and it was all a horrible practical joke. Stevie shook her head. She had to stop torturing herself with these thoughts. She should focus on Marlena’s wedding instead.

  Her intention that morning had been to head over to Bond Street and see if she could find a wedding present—although she wasn’t quite sure what one bought a pirate queen on such an occasion, the effort would distract her. In the end, she settled on a single earring, a large pearl hanging from a thin, golden chain. Stevie felt it was elegant, and yet piratical. She had it wrapped, and organised for it to be sent to Monte Carlo. It felt like the first step towards a recovery of some sort—life did indeed go on.

  Her fragile equilibrium lasted until she arrived back at David’s flat, poured herself a whisky and turned on the television. Some holidaymaker’s footage, a little shaky, but perfectly clear: Marlena on the Riva, Aristo on the dock, the fireball, the waving scarf above the water. The bride-to-be incinerated on the eve of her wedding.

  The horror.

  For a second, Krok’s face flashed in her mind.

  Could he have arranged an assassination from an interrogation cell?

  No. She knew in her bones it was not him. She remembered only too well Socrates Skorpios’ threat to kill Marlena if Aristo did not leave her, and there was no doubt in Stevie’s mind: Skorpios would not be defied, not even by his own son, and so he had murdered Aristo’s fiancée. Icy rage and deep sorrow flushed through her body in equal measures. The man was a monster, a beautifully dressed, urbane, sophisticated monster. She turned from the television in disgust and began to cry.

  Days later, Stevie’s phone rang. A private number. ‘Stevie Duveen,’ she answered cautiously.

  ‘Stevie.’ It was Iris. ‘I need to talk to you. Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?’

  ‘Where?’ Stevie’s heart thudded with anticipation. Perhaps Iris would have news about Henning.

  ‘Paris. In the Bar Vendôme at the Ritz. Let’s make it noon.’

  At exactly twelve o’clock, Stevie walked across Place Vendôme and into the Ritz. Over her shoulders she wore a black tweed Chanel jacket that had belonged to her grandmother. The skirt had gone up in flames long ago in an incident that had never been explained to Stevie’s satisfaction by its former owner. So, instead of a matching skirt, she wore her leather trousers, the ones purchased in Zurich and made infamous when she chased down a would-be assassin at the ice polo in St Moritz. She wore the owl brooch pinned to her jacket. Her broken arm was in a white silk sling.

  Iris was waiting for her at a round table by the window, half hidden by some indoor greenery and a gold window drape. She rose to kiss Stevie, sleek as a sword in a grey cashmere dress and enormous pearls.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Stevie. I didn’t think it was wise to say too much over the telephone.’

  The waiter brought two plates of oeuf en gelée and a bottle of Sancerre. When he had gone, Stevie took a sip of the wine and looked up at Iris. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’ she said softly.

  Iris shook her head, her lips pursed.

  ‘So . . .?’ asked Stevie, the rest of her question dying on her lips under the weight of so many others.

  ‘Henning is very badly hurt,’ began Iris, her eyes shining with tears now. ‘He’s in a clinic where they are doing the best they can. He has a punctured lung, ruptured intestines and blood poisoning.’

  Stevie listened, her eyes widening in horror.

  ‘Even if he pulls through,’ went on Henning’s mother, ‘he may never walk again.’ The elegant woman’s tears spilt down her cheeks, the pearls of sorrow, and Stevie felt her own eyes sting. ‘Why didn’t you tell me at the funeral?’

  Iris reached into her purse and pulled out a silver cigarette case. ‘People were watching. I couldn’t take the risk.’

  ‘What do you mean, Iris?’ Stevie pressed her. ‘What’s going on? Why is Henning pretending to be dead?’ Stevie refused a cigarette with a small shake of her head. She sat back into the wine-red chair, her mind teeming with wild thoughts. Outside the dark clouds had gathered and were rumbling, threatening rain. It felt like dusk already.

  ‘There are reasons why it was a good opportunity for certain people to think Henning is dead.’ Iris exhaled a stream of smoke and turned her dark eyes on Stevie. ‘It’s safer that way.’

  ‘Who are these people, Iris? What do they want with Henning?’

  ‘That is as much as I can say, Stevie. The rest is Henning’s story and it is his to tell, not mine.’ She added softly, ‘I’m sorry, Stevie.’

  Stevie turned away and stared out of the window. Outside the rain had begun to fall in fat, heavy drops and the sky was black. The waiter brought a copper burner and frypan.

  ‘I ordered ahead . . . I thought a crepe suzette might help,’ murmured Iris. They sat in silence as the waiter lit the burner and poured brandy into the pan.

  Clever Iris, thought Stevie darkly, stopping our conversation with a judicious choice of dessert.

  The flaming dish was finally served and the waiter retreated.

  ‘Can I visit him at least?’ Stevie asked, leaning forward.

  Iris shook her head. ‘No one is allowed to see him. He can barely speak.’

  Stevie swallowed her frustration and asked h
er next question. ‘Did he send me this brooch?’

  Iris nodded. ‘He asked me to arrange it . . . he didn’t want you to suffer.’

  ‘He didn’t want me to suffer . . .’ Stevie’s anger was rising now. ‘And Henning didn’t think that believing he had died for me in a bullring, then finding out he had come back to life with terrible injuries, and then being told that I was not allowed to visit him or speak to him or even know where he is because people are after him wouldn’t upset me?’ She took a breath and a swallow of the brandy that the waiter had poured into a balloon glass. ‘Iris, I don’t know what to think. It’s as if everything I ever knew about Henning was actually nothing.’

  The truth of what she had just said hit Stevie. Henning had always been mysterious, and she had made up her mind that she could deal with that, and that he would reveal his secrets little by little. But she had never imagined that his secrets would be so dark or so frightening; the reality of it was far from the fantasy and it was all too much. Stevie put her glass down, tears welling in her eyes. She fought them back and said slowly, ‘The Henning I knew died for me in that bullring in Spain. This other Henning, with his deep secrets and his lies, is a stranger to me. You can tell him that next time you see him.’

  Iris reached out and took Stevie’s hand. ‘You can’t mean that, Stevie. You know the real Henning like no one else. He is still the same man. He loves you.’

  Stevie looked away, not wanting to cry. The rain outside would do it for her.

  ‘What happened in that bullring?’ Iris asked gently.

  And it all flashed back to her in a blinding instant.

  How could she have forgotten?

  The thrust that made her lose her balance, the tiny movement that had shoved her world off its orbit. Skorpios had pushed her. She was sure of it. He had reached out as if to help her but he knew what he was doing. He had shoved the bolt to the gate open and pushed her into the bullring; Henning had leapt in to save her. Henning had been gored because of that push, that bad hand with the scorpion ring, that man.