A Moment Of Madness

by Hilary Bonner

  Angel Silver had summoned him and it was as if he had no choice.

  Nick went to the sideboard in the dining room and poured himself a whisky, which he drank in one swallow. He usually drank very little, knowing only too well the damage the stuff could do.

  With his head swimming slightly he sought out Moira, who had retreated to the kitchen, where Jennifer was pulling on her coat.

  ‘Don’t think I’ll wait up for the old bugger,’ he told her casually. ‘I feel like an early night. It’s been a great day. Thanks for everything you’ve done.’

  Nick was invariably courteous and thoughtful with people. He worked at it. He liked to get people on his side, and even as anxious as he was becoming about his father, it was automatic for him not to forget to thank Moira.

  But all she said in response was: ‘OK, Nick. Good night then.’

  She sounded preoccupied and Nick didn’t blame her. Neither did he want to talk to her, however. He just wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

  There was something about the way his father had reacted to that phone call. It reminded Nick of the old obsessive behaviour patterns which he still recalled so clearly from his childhood.

  Nick felt anxious as he climbed into his pyjamas, which he had that morning folded neatly on the pillow. Nick was very tidy and liked order. That partly came from his army days. It was also, he suspected, a legacy of his childhood when, thanks to his errant father, he had known very little order at all.

  He lay down on the bed, still thinking the evening through. Probably he was worrying over nothing, he told himself. Kelly was certainly still dry, Nick was sure that he would know if he’d been drinking at all. And naturally a man with his background would be delighted to be involved in such a big story again.

  Nick just hoped that was all it was. Moira already seemed to regard Angel Silver as some sort of threat. Nick didn’t know whether she was or not. Not yet, anyway.

  Nine

  It was very dark outside Maythorpe Manor. The security lights were off, and if there were any lights on inside the house the curtains must have been tightly drawn because Kelly could not see even a chink at the windows. The place was deserted. No police. No fans. No press.

  Well, it had been empty for weeks and people get fed up with standing outside an empty house. Even journalists.

  Kelly slowed almost to a halt outside the towering electronic gates and was about to stop the car to get out and speak into the intercom when the gates opened before him as if by magic. At the same moment the lights blazed on.

  Had Angel been watching from inside, seen his headlights approaching, Kelly wondered. Or maybe she had heard the engine. No motor in the world had a more distinctive sound than an MG.

  He drove into the grounds of the imposing old house. It felt strange to be an invited guest after having stood on the doorstep for so long. He motored slowly across the gravelled forecourt and pulled to a halt outside the pillared front door.

  Thanks to the neon glare of the security lamps it was almost like daylight as he stepped out of the car. From what he could see of the garden it already did not look as well cared for as when he had last studied it. The white paint of the front door was peeling slightly. Only the daily help, Mrs Sheila Nott, had been retained, Kelly understood. It seemed that everything had started to fall apart.

  He fastened the zip of his battered old leather jacket as he stepped out of the car. A bright and sunny Christmas Day had turned into a cold damp night.

  The front door opened just as he reached for the bell pull on the wall alongside it. Suddenly she was standing right in front of him. He withdrew his hand and stood looking at her.

  Her hair was wispy blonde again, close to its natural colour perhaps. He wondered if even she knew what her natural colour was any more. The violet eyes studied him in that slightly mocking way which seemed to come naturally, even when she would appear to have absolutely nothing to be mocking about. Her mouth was, as usual, a vermilion slash in that translucent porcelain skin. It parted in a slight smile of greeting, the lips curling almost imperceptibly in the corners.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, come on in,’ she said.

  He took a step forward. His legs felt weak, slightly shaky. There was something about getting close to someone you had trailed from a distance. He had spent so much time thinking about Angel Silver and what had happened to her, trying to get inside her head.

  ‘Close the door behind you,’ she commanded, stepping backwards, still looking at him. She was a woman fully aware of the effect she could have on men.

  Kelly did as he was told, and a little voice inside his head sent him a message that this was how it would always be with Angel Silver. Trouble was, he didn’t even care.

  She led him into a big high-ceilinged sitting room which looked as if it could do with a good clean. Its décor was the first surprise. Absolutely traditional English furniture. One or two rather good antiques, Kelly thought. Two chintzy sofas, a rocking chair, a beautiful mahogany desk in the corner, heavy velvet drapes at the windows, richly coloured Indian rugs scattered over a dark wood-block floor, cream brocade wallpaper.

  Kelly was not sure what he had expected to find in the home of a rock icon and his beautiful if slightly weird wife, but this was not it at all. It was so conventional. He had just assumed that he would be confronted by something outlandish, he supposed.

  Music played softly in the background. Another surprise.

  ‘Mozart,’ he said.

  She nodded, the eyes even more mocking.

  ‘Didn’t you think Angel Silver could appreciate classical music?’

  He noted the use of the word ‘could’ instead of the ‘would’ that might have fitted rather more naturally.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ he said, trying to sound casual. He looked around again. There was no sign at all in the house that it was Christmas Day. Indeed, when they had spoken on the phone earlier it had been almost as if she were unaware of that until he had pointed it out.

  ‘Have you been alone today?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes?’ she replied questioningly, sounding surprised that he should bother to make such an enquiry.

  ‘Well, nothing, but it is Christmas …’ he stumbled uncertainly.

  ‘Just another day to me,’ she replied quickly. ‘Particularly this year.’

  Of course, he thought, wondering if he had been insensitive.

  ‘I suppose so. I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Coffee maybe?’

  Her eyebrows had lifted. ‘Coffee? Is this the wild man of Fleet Street that I remember?’

  Everything she said to him seemed to be mocking, or teasing at the very least. She was wearing what he could only describe to himself as a sort of little-girl frock in an almost fluorescent pink silky material. On any other woman of her age it would have looked ridiculous. Angel got away with it. She looked gorgeous. The dress was low and displayed an enticing glimpse of small pert breasts. Kelly tried not to look. They were very white. A vivid image of what they would be like fully exposed – small but perfect, with dark hard nipples – suddenly flashed in front of his eyes.

  As if on cue her hand went to the front of her dress. She tugged at it slightly, revealing just a little more pale flesh.

  He flinched, and made a real effort to pull himself together. Could she read his mind?

  ‘I’m surprised you remember me at all.’

  ‘Why? Because I was out of my head?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that –’

  ‘Yes you did, but it’s all right.’

  She invited him to sit down, and disappeared somewhere to make coffee, leaving him alone with thoughts which were already confused. She had been flirting with him, there was no doubt about that, and he wasn’t sure whether he hoped she would stop or not. He had no illusions. He suspected flirting was just a reflex action for her. None the less he found it terribly disturbing. He fiddled with his tape
recorder, making sure it was working properly, and checked unnecessarily that his notebook and pen were in his jacket pocket.

  Angel seemed to be away a very long time. Kelly wondered how used she was to making coffee for herself. It was somehow difficult to imagine Angel Silver undertaking any mundane household task. Eventually she returned with two large porcelain mugs on a plastic tray.

  ‘Instant OK?’ she enquired in a voice which suggested that it didn’t much matter whether it was OK or not, because it was all he was getting.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  She tripped slightly over the rug by the sofa. Kelly leaned forward and grabbed the tray, steadying it, then taking it from her. The two mugs each sat in a brown puddle now. She reached for a box of paper handkerchiefs on the little table next to him and mopped up the tray, very carefully. As she leaned over him the flimsy pink dress gaped even more and he could see her breasts even more clearly. The nipples disproportionately large, very dark brown, and standing out. Hard. Inviting. Much as he had imagined them earlier. He made himself look away.

  ‘There,’ she said, behaving as if she’d accomplished a momentous task as she finished cleaning the tray, screwed up the paper handkerchief and tossed it into the already littered grate of the unlit fireplace. Then she sat down on the sofa next to him, closer to him than most people would sit, he thought. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. She was breathing quickly. She gave a little sniff and lifted one of the mugs to her lips. He studied her. He had a pretty fair idea of what she had been doing which had kept her so long while she’d been allegedly making the coffee. He’d done enough coke himself to know the signs. He made no comment, of course. What could he possibly say? That he’d always had her down as one who’d never really be able to kick all her bad habits, somebody who would never even want to face every day of the rest of her life without that something extra, without something to bend her mind, without that buzz, that lift, that you can get from a little packet of white powder? Yet Angel seemed to survive, and to continue to function, whatever she was doing, whatever she was on, whatever got her through the days. If she still had a habit she must at least have retained some control over it, he reckoned. She looked so good, for a start. Perhaps she was one of the ones who could handle it after all, at least well enough to kid themselves that they could. And maybe she’d had to sink to rock bottom first to get even that far, just like he had done not so long afterwards. She still looked so absurdly young although it was almost seventeen years since he’d plucked her from the gutter. And since then he’d been there himself.

  He picked up the other coffee mug and took a sip, moving the tray from his lap on to the floor at their feet.

  ‘So, are you going to switch that thing on or what?’ Angel asked, gesturing at the tape recorder, taking charge again.

  You’d think she was the one conducting the interview, Kelly thought. He gave himself a mental talking-to. If this was going to work he had to take control.

  ‘If you’re sure you’re ready,’ he said. ‘I’d like to start with you taking me through the night when it all happened. When Scott and Terry James died. Your own version of events –’

  ‘What do you mean, “version”?’ she interrupted sharply, snapping at him, no mockery now in her eyes, just a fast-blazing anger.

  ‘Whoa. That’s just a turn of phrase, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you watch your turn of phrase then. I thought you were supposed to be an expert with words.’

  ‘Shall we try again? Would you just tell me what happened from the beginning?’

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  He had a feeling Angel was deliberately testing his patience. He didn’t rise.

  ‘Wherever you think you should.’

  She nodded, leaning back on the sofa, and seemed to go off into a kind of dream.

  ‘Scott and I had spent the evening here alone, listening to music. We weren’t mad ravers any more, you know. We liked our home, just being together. A nice meal, a decent bottle of wine. Maybe a video. We were just like any ordinary married couple.’

  She glanced at him appealingly. Anybody less like half of ‘any ordinary married couple’ than Angel Silver was difficult to imagine. Kelly did not speak. He just gestured her to continue.

  ‘We went to bed about midnight, I suppose. I’m not sure. We both fell asleep quite quickly, I think. The next thing I knew was I felt Scott stir, I think he sat upright, and he must have flicked the bedside light on. It was probably the light which woke me, or it may have been when he cried out, “What the fuck?” That’s what he said. “What the fuck?”

  ‘I suppose neither of us was quite awake. It was like a bad dream. There was Terry James standing in the middle of our bedroom just looking at us. He was carrying a bag in one hand – the police said later it was full of our things – and he had this knife in the other. I recognised it. Can you believe that? At that moment I recognised it as one of our kitchen knives, he’d just picked it up, apparently. I was kind of mesmerised by him just standing there, couldn’t take it in as real, but Scott leaped out of bed and threw himself at him. He was always like that, Scott, fancied himself as a bit of an action man. He was the first person I knew to try bungee jumping, before most people had even heard of it. Scott liked danger. He was never afraid. It was just like him to act first, then think later …’

  Angel’s voice tailed off. Her eyes still had that faraway look. Kelly didn’t want to break the spell. He kept silent, waiting for her to speak again.

  ‘There was a struggle. Scott was very strong, you know, tough, wiry. He had hold of Terry James’s knife arm, and with his other arm he was going for him, clawing at him, punching, going for his eyes, it looked like. James was shouting, “Get off me.” I just watched. I can’t believe now that I didn’t manage to do anything else. I could have helped. There was a panic button by the bed. I might even have had time to phone the police. But I didn’t do anything. I just watched.

  ‘Anyway, although Scott was strong he was half Terry James’s size. James got his knife hand free and started lashing at Scott. He cut him on the cheek, I think, just a glancing blow, but Scott cried out in pain and he sounded scared then. I think he finally felt afraid, realised what he was taking on. He just turned away, cowering. James brought the knife up from under, and stabbed him in the side of his back, low down, right in the kidneys, the police said. That first blow, that …’

  She broke down then. Tears started to pour down her face. Kelly stared at her, fascinated. She wasn’t sobbing, not weeping at all in the conventional fashion, but these huge tears were just pouring down her face. He passed her one of the paper hankies. She took it but did not attempt to use it. It was almost as if she did not fully realise that she was crying.

  ‘That first blow, they told me, that alone, may have been fatal. B-but, he didn’t stop. It was like he went mad. Scott started to fall, James was half holding him up, and he just kept sticking that knife into him, over and over again.

  ‘Then suddenly he let go. Scott fell in a crumpled heap, and it was as if James suddenly realised what he had done. He seemed rooted to the spot, just staring at Scott, the knife dangling from his hand. For a moment it was like he had forgotten that I was there.

  ‘Sc-Scott was making this funny gurgling noise. He was covered in blood. It was spurting out from all over his body, out of his mouth too, sort of bubbling out. But I didn’t think that he might be dying, might be more or less already dead. I just wanted it all to stop. I had to protect him, I thought. It was down to me to make it stop.

  ‘I half fell out of bed and I grabbed James by the arm and took the knife from him. I think I took him completely by surprise. I got the knife from him quite easily. Suddenly I had it in my hand. It was covered in blood, of course, thick gooey blood, but I don’t remember caring about that at all.

  ‘James made this sort of grunting noise, as if suddenly becoming aware of what I had done, or even that I was there at all. Then he said, “C’mo
n, give it me back,” and he said it quite gently, which made it all the more frightening, somehow. I kept walking away from him, backwards, watching him all the time. I don’t know quite what I intended to do – maybe throw that dreadful knife out of the window, anything to get rid of it. Maybe I was too shocked to have any intentions. I didn’t take my eyes off him. He was like a wild animal. I kind of thought as long as I had eye contact it would be all right, that he wouldn’t charge. But he did, you see. That’s exactly what he did. Suddenly he came at me …’

  The tears were flowing more freely than ever; liquid was flowing from her mouth and nostrils as well. She was not crying prettily. At last she started to sob properly and her shoulders began to heave. Her eyes were red and swollen. This was a bitter heartfelt outpouring of grief. It could, Kelly felt, be nothing else. But still he did not intervene. He didn’t know what to say, for a start.

  The paper hankie he had passed her was screwed into a ball in her right fist. He passed her another one, silently. She took it, dropping the first one on the floor, and this time blew her nose loudly. Then she mopped the worst of the tears from her face. He watched as she struggled to regain control. It was two or three minutes before she started to speak again.

  ‘He came at me,’ Angel repeated, her voice low and distant. ‘He just charged at me. This huge powerful man. I don’t think it occurred to him that I would use the knife on him. I don’t think it occurred to me either. I was just trying to protect myself, to protect poor Scott, to make sure he didn’t hurt us any more. He charged and I just thrust out the knife. He more or less threw himself on it. He took almost the full blade in his stomach. It just went in so easily …’

  Her voice became even more faraway. She started to sob again. Kelly waited but she made no attempt to speak again.

  After a while he took her hand lightly in his. ‘But Angel,’ he said very gently, ‘it’s been reported that Terry James was stabbed at least ten times. How did that happen, Angel?’

  She stopped crying at once, turned to look at him full face, and quite deliberately removed her hand from his. The vermilion slash of her mouth was smudged now, lipstick smeared across her face. Like blood, he thought. Only nothing was like blood, except blood. And Kelly knew that better than most.