‘Perhaps you’ve been trying too hard,’ she said gently, and had to forcibly resist the urge to take him in her arms and add her own strength, her own will, to his.
Ran sighed. ‘You might very well be right,’ he said, his voice now softer, no longer abrasive and harsh with the inner devils that tormented him. ‘And I apologise for taking out my bad temper on you.’
Rena smiled. ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve got broad shoulders.’
‘Funny, I wouldn’t have thought they’d be all that broad at all,’ he replied in a voice she knew only too well. And before she could so much as think about it, he had reached out to take her shoulders in his hands.
His touch was gentle, but electric. Rena stood shock-still, feeling that she would melt at the sensations that flowed through her body. Her knees trembled, threatening to dissolve beneath her. She felt her nipples go firm against the light fabric of her bra, and something like a white-hot coal flowed down to steam in her tummy before lighting even hotter fires below it.
Then sanity drove like an arrow into her brain and with a sharp cry she flinched away from him, huddling crouched like a wounded, frightened animal.
‘My God!’ The words came loudly from his lips, and the expression on his face was one of amazement, incredulity. ‘Rena, I’m truly sorry,’ he said. ‘I ... I certainly didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘It’s ... all right,’ she gasped, unsure of her voice but knowing she must stop him from reaching out to her again. ‘It’s just that you startled me, that’s all. Please don’t worry about it.’ And even as she spoke she was backing away, tiny, hesitant step by tiny, hesitant step. ‘Please,’ she said again. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
The lie followed her even as his voice did. ‘I find that rather difficult to believe, under the circumstances,’ he said. ‘But either way I apologise.’ And there was a coldness there, a slender thread of rejection recognised and felt.
Rena stopped, took a deep, slow breath, forced herself to return, to reach out and take his fingers in her own. ‘But you must believe it,’ she said softly. ‘Because it’s true.’
‘Liar,’ he said with equal softness, and his fingers pressed gently upon her own.
‘Liar!’ screamed a voice inside her, making no allowance for circumstances, no allowance for his feelings, for hers. She would have snatched her hand away, but he released it before she could.
‘That’s hardly very complimentary,’ she said.
‘The truth seldom is,’ he replied, ‘but I thank you for your good intentions, anyway. You’re a remarkably empathetic woman.’
‘I would have thought most women were reasonably so,’ she replied, wondering at the same time why she was here, why she was carrying on this inane conversation with a man so completely, so utterly dangerous to her psychic well-being.
‘Most women,’ he said with astonishing bitterness, ‘are about as empathetic as starving lions, except when it serves their purpose.’
‘Well, I’d suppose you’d know,’ she found herself replying; and could have bitten her tongue.
Ran grinned, but it was a mocking, derisive grin. ‘And that is a rather provocative statement,’ he replied. ‘Just what makes you think something like that?’
Rena stepped back, moving involuntarily closer to the doorway, to escape. Then some inner demon stepped into her mouth and took over her tongue.
‘If you could see the effect you’ve been having on Louise, you wouldn’t have to ask,’ said her mouth. And her heart cried.
Ran’s snort has genuine. ‘Anything in long trousers would have that effect on Louise,’ he retorted. ‘She’s about as subtle as a meat-axe.’
‘Doesn’t alter the fact she fancies you,’ remarked Rena’s demon-controlled tongue. ‘Although perhaps a bit less since you tore up her manuscript.’
He laughed. ‘More like a great deal less, but I daresay she’ll get over it. Any bets on whether she’ll be back next week?’
‘Not a chance,’ Rena replied, now finding herself rather enjoying the game. ‘She’ll be back; no question of it.’
‘And will you?’ The question was unexpected, as was the softness of his voice, the intimacy of it. Rena had to pause for thought before replying.
‘I expect so.’ Just right, she thought. Noncommittal, emotionless.
‘Good. I’d be rather upset if you didn’t.’ His voice was velvet, music. And her heart sang with the remark although she gave no visible sign of it.
‘Yes ... well ... I suppose I’d best be going,’ she faltered. ‘Shall I ... do you want me to get the lights for you?’
‘No, it’d just upset my chauffeur,’ he replied. ‘She seems to forget that being left in the dark doesn’t bother me. Goodnight, Rena. I’ll look forward to hearing what you come up with for next week.’
He might very well have meant it, too, she thought on the way home. But by dinner time the following Wednesday, she was in no way convinced he would be pleased with her work.
It had been, quite simply, a horrible, useless week. Rena’s writing, actually, had suffered far less than her emotional situation, which by that third class of creative writing was walking a narrow tightrope and not doing it well.
She had tried — every single evening, she had tried — to rework her short story along the lines suggested during the previous class. But every attempt she made seemed only to make the story worse, until by class time she was almost ready to give it away entirely.
The problem, in a word, was Ran. He had been in her thoughts constantly throughout the week, pervading her waking moments, invading her sleep. But worst was the memories.
It seemed as if by touching her the week before, by simply taking her slender shoulders in his hands, he had shattered every barrier her mind and body had raised against him. She had driven home with his voice in her ears, his face in her mind, almost with his very presence in the car beside her.
Later that night, and indeed on each night when she went lonely to her bed, she seemed to relive that amazing, glorious, almost unbelievable fortnight two years before. The fortnight in which Ran Logan had met Catherine Conley, wooed her, won her, used her — and deserted her as callously as changing a shirt.
Even in retrospect, even with the addition of two years of introspection and bitter wisdom, Rena had trouble believing how false that fortnight really was. It just didn’t seem possible that so much promise, so much happiness, could have been forged in deceit.
At the time, and even in her most secret memories, it had seemed so perfect, so totally ... right. Ran had seen her daily after that first dinner date. He had sent her flowers, he had bought her presents, he had taken her to eat and drink and be entertained in a fashion that was at first quite overwhelming.
And yet it seemed that at the same time he had realised her need for occasional privacy, her need to maintain her own individuality, her own sense of person.
His presents had always been thoughtful, considered. Most, indeed, hadn’t even been expensive, but mere trifles that seemed mostly to reveal that he listened to her, was aware of her needs.
During one of their evening strolls she had stopped to ask that he buy her some hot buttered popcorn, and he had laughed with her as they shared it, smearing butter everywhere and emerging from the experience like grubby little children. But two days later she had received an enormous five-gallon container of the stuff, specially delivered by messenger early one Saturday morning.
Included with the popcorn was a beautiful slinky silk scarf and a note advising her to use the scarf only for ‘after-popcorn’ grooming. When Ran had arrived an hour later she had still been uncertain what to do with such a ridiculous, illogical, loving gift.
He had shown her — hoisting the container on one broad shoulder as they strolled hand-in-hand to the nearest park, where they shared it with every passing child until the last kernel was gone.
Rena still had the container; it was in her bathroom collecting dirty tissues
and discarded tights. Appropriate, she bought.
He had taken her sailing in Sydney Harbour, kissed her beneath the harbour bridge as the sea wind sent their small craft spanking across the water. He had taken her to walk in an isolated section of the Royal National Park during one long, sun-soaked, silent afternoon when they revelled in each other’s presence and kept their attention consciously on the vivid natural world about them.
On the nights when she had to work, he had been there from beginning to end, encouraging her with his eyes, his every gesture revealing pride in her accomplishments, joy in her own pleasures of song and music.
They had seemed to share so much. Seemed to ...
And yet the reality, in hindsight, was so terribly, cruelly and still unbelievably different.
He hadn’t — for God’s sake — even come to know her real name!
A small thing in itself, and one that Rena found herself now truly thankful for, but even in retrospect it seemed amazing that she could meet, love and give herself to a man without ever telling him that the name under which she sang was only a part of her name.
Catherine Conley had seemed an appropriate stage name. And when she met Ran Logan, she was Catherine Conley. But because he never once telephoned her at her day-to-day job, and no sane woman in Sydney would advertise her feminine status with a Mrs, Miss or Ms on her mailbox ... still, it seemed ridiculous. Rena’s mailbox had borne the simple lettering C. C. Everett, since she never received mail as Catherine Conley.
But she never received mail from Ran, either. Nor was he ever present when she collected her mail. So she had never told him, not for any reason; and now it seemed ludicrous, although beneficial to the deceptive role she was in.
But it didn’t help her writing any more than did her growing obsession with Ran, his blindness, and the curious circumstances that now threw them together on one single night each week.
Tonight! Tonight, and she had accomplished nothing with her short story but an enormous confusion of words and phrases and thoughts. Worse than when she had started.
Not, she supposed, that it mattered a great deal anyway. Certainly she must abandon any delusion that she was attending the classes because of her original intention to learn creative writing. No! The sole, simple attraction was Ran Logan, and Rena felt herself drawn like a moth to the flame.
As she drove towards the college for her third class, she felt bone-weary, exhausted by a week of near-sleepless nights, of days in which her mind flickered like a defective neon sign, unable to concentrate properly, to think properly.
And all because of Ran Logan! Truly, she thought, it was the blind leading the blind. The difficult part was that she, unlike Ran, should have been able to control her own mental blindness.
As usual, she was first to arrive at the college, although this time it was only seconds before the swooping black Jaguar veered to the kerb to deposit Ran. As before, she waited until he had fumbled his way up the steep, narrow staircase before leaving her own car and walking into the building to join him.
‘Hello, Rena. You’re early too, I see.’ His welcome stopped her in confusion. How could he know? She had said not a word, hadn’t, surely, approached close enough to give him the excuse of smelling her perfume. How?
He frowned slightly at her question, which she suddenly realised must have seemed a bit harsh without including an acknowledgment to his greeting. But when he replied there was no sign that he had noticed her abruptness.
He grinned, that slow, soft, gentle grin she remembered all too well, too painfully. ‘I must admit that I wonder about that myself,’ he said then. ‘I wish I could explain it, as much for my own peace of mind as yours, but I honestly can’t. It’s just that there’s something ... familiar. I seem able to know when it’s you, where you are when you’re in the same room, things like that.’ Then he laughed. ‘Maybe I’m developing extra-sensory perception to make up for being blind!’
Rena laughed with him at that, but her own laugh was taut and brittle. The very thought was frightening, almost terrifying.
And worse — far worse — with his next words.
‘There’s something about your voice, too. Something very familiar there.’
She shuddered, thankful he couldn’t see her physical reaction.
‘... perhaps because I once knew somebody with a similar voice,’ he was saying. And then, without warning, ‘Are you deceitful, like all women, Rena?’
She tried to pass it off lightly. ‘No worse than most, I suppose. Not forgetting that I can’t quite agree with you on such a broad generalisation in the first place. I don’t happen to believe that all women, as you put it, are automatically deceitful.’
‘Are you pretty?’ The question came as if he hadn’t even heard her reply. Or had blithely ignored it.
Rena didn’t — couldn’t — answer that one easily. Her mouth, suddenly dry and dogged with unexpected emotion, wouldn’t allow it.
‘I ... suppose reasonably so,’ she finally managed to say. ‘I’m not unhappy with the way I look, at any rate.’ Not quite the truth, especially after the week she’d just had, but not quite a lie, either. She knew herself to be anything but vain.
Ran looked at her; she could actually feel him trying to use his eyes, concentrating solely on his no-longer-existent sense of sight. His dark eyebrows furrowed and narrow lines of strain appeared beside his generous mouth.
‘I’d have bet you were beautiful,’ he said. Softly, very softly. A caress, almost. Something inside Rena tried to reach out, to thrust itself from the scar tissue of his deceit and somehow touch him. She choked it back into submission.
‘You know what they say about the eye of the beholder,’ she replied, hastily, knowingly cruel, hurtful and sorry and yet not sorry at all. Even blind he shouldn’t have this frightening ability to manipulate her emotions.
Her words struck him forcefully. She could see the sudden twitching of his strong jaw muscles, the convulsive surge of the muscles at his throat as he choked back a bitter reply.
‘Yes,’ he said finally in a voice like death. ‘Yes, I know what they say.’
And he turned away from her, striking the edge of his table in his haste and then kicking out at it in silent anger as he fumbled to find his seat.
Rena stood there in stunned silence, one hand raised to her still-open mouth as if by the gesture alone she could push the words back into it. Her mind was stunned; vacated of rational thought by the unthinking cruelty that had spewed from within her.
How could she ever have said such a thing? It was ... just not possible, she thought. And yet she’d done it, and worse, done it coldly and without so much as a thought for the pain it might inflict.
Bad enough to have perhaps rationalised it, perhaps foolishly, as a means of alleviating her own pain, her own wounds. But to use such a horrible weapon on a man defenceless and blind ...
‘I ... I ... She tried to get the words out, to apologise, even knowing there was little likelihood of it being accepted. But too late. The sound of approaching footsteps heralded the arrival of other class members; Ran ignored her without seeming to in his greeting of her fellow students.
And he ignored her throughout the rest of the class, merely passing off her short-story problems as ‘expectable’ and advising her that she was probably trying too hard.
‘You’ve chosen a sensitive subject, obviously one that you’ve some experience with,’ he said. ‘But you’re too close to it, too emotionally involved. I realise that you’re trying to use your writing to get things into perspective, but it must be too soon ... for you.’
Then came the clincher, the single, vengeful comment she had been waiting for all evening, a statement with a message that only Rena completely understood.
‘It’s obvious you’ve got a phenomenal, however justified, dislike of men,’ he said. ‘I’d suggest you keep on working at exorcising your bitterness for a while longer; maybe then you’ll be able to get your perspectives organised.’
He didn’t even really look in her direction as he spoke; he didn’t need to. Rena got his message, and had to bite back a vitriolic retort.
It was no consolation that he was equally hard on several other members of the class. In fact only John and, surprisingly, the redheaded Louise had been spared his acid tongue. Rena wasn’t surprised at all about John, who had obviously worked long and hard at his revamping, but Louise’s work she recognised as being almost word for word what it had been originally, so close that Rena couldn’t help wondering if the glamorous redhead had lied about not keeping a carbon.
But if Ran noticed the similarity he didn’t comment on it, and the absence of obvious criticism had a distinct effect on Louise’s personality. All of her abrasiveness seemed to vanish like smoke. She was smiling, pleasant, and, for her, only a little condescending towards the other members of the class.
What couldn’t go unnoticed also was the diminishing size of the class. From ten down to only six, and the missing four seemed unlikely, in Rena’s view, to return.
The unisex duo was gone, not surprisingly, but also missing were the nondescript young man with the motorcycle helmet, and one of the housewives. And judging from reactions to Ran’s harsh criticisms this third Wednesday, she thought it likely there’d be another two missing by the next class.
One of the remaining housewives had taken on a sulky expression when Ran had contemptuously dismissed her excuses for not doing very much work, and the serious young student type also was looking none too pleased.
Certainly, Rena thought to herself, Ran Logan would be difficult to compare to the typical teacher in any institution. Her own memory included none with such vividness, such a blatant, careless regard for convention.
He was, this particular evening, dressed entirely in black. His slim, tight-fitting trousers fell on to shining half-boots, and a broad belt cinched them around the waist of a thick, fluffy sweater-shirt with a wide collar and deep-cut throat. Only the shine of the chain round his throat, the chain holding that damned medallion, and the silvery rim of his sunglasses broke the solid darkness of his figure.
Blind Man's Buff Page 7
