Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  `We're not riding up on those donkeys in this heat,' he said firmly. 'We're going to laze for an hour, have something at the taverna, then we're going to walk up at sundown and wait for the moon.'

  She had to admit that, like all of Quinn's plans, it seemed the most ideal, and watching the two bus-loads of hot and exhausted-looking tourists who straggled down the hill at sundown she was glad of his forethought. The buses roared away, the cars began to depart, and by the time she and Quinn came out of the taverna the night was cooling and Lindos belonged again to its own.

  The sweetness of jasmine and wild herbs hung in the air, and the sleeping blossoms were faintly luminous in the cottage gardens and window boxes as Shelley idled her way up the cobbles of the winding hill. The vine juice was sharp and sweet against her lips as she bit into the grapes Quinn had given her and time had ceased to matter. It didn't matter whether they scaled the heights and reached the crowning beauty of Lindos tonight or tomorrow, or never: it would always be there, ageless, waiting for the feet of the old, the young and the curious who would seek to divine the magic of its ancient stones.

  The moon was with them when at last they reached the summit, and it seemed the whole island had taken on a mysterious life of its own. The purple sea whispered far below, and the darkness veiled the clustered roofs of the little town on the hillside. Light tendrils of a fragrant breeze stirred through Shelley's hair, and the air of history stole from within the Temple of Athene. Surely the sandalled feet of bygone centuries fiittered over these worn stones, white robes drifted past those towering columns, through the great arch which now framed the night and the stars, and elusive beyond human perception the laughter of the gods echoed down through the ages of their eternal sporting above the

  moonlit Hellenic paradise.

  The tiny spurt of flame from Quinn's cigarette lighter brought her back to reality and she sank down on one of the broad steps and leaned back against the great plinth. The stone still held the stored warmth of the sun and she felt it penetrate the thin cotton voile of her blouse. She could see the outline of Quinn's profile quite clearly and she was aware of a sudden desire to break the silence and reclaim him from the mood of reflection in which he seemed withdrawn.

  She spoke his name softly and he murmured a response without turning his head. She hesitated, still seeking the right words, and he turned then, his shadowy features enquiring.

  She looked down. 'Nothing, really, except that the days have flown so quicky. I—I don't think I want to leave it all'

  'There's still one more day. What do you want to do tomorrow?' His tone was light with the air of indulgence which seemed to hold something else, a quality of neutrality she had sensed for some time yet only now defined as such.

  'I don't know,' she said slowly.

  'A hectic tour round the island? A farewell to all those places we liked "best" of all?'

  'There are too many. I can't— Oh, Quinn! Are you sure you don't regret it?' She stopped, almost aghast. She had not intended to say that at all; she had intended to try to tell him how much his understanding and patience had meant to her, to convey that she hadn't taken it all for granted, without noticing and thanking ... but that sharp unguarded question ... Dismay came with awareness of the change in his mood, small, but subtle and unmistakeable to her increasingly attuned senses.

  At last he said slowly : 'I assume there is only one meaning behind that, and I'm afraid it's a very difficult question to answer truthfully.' He sighed. 'Neither of the two possible answers are satisfactory : if I say, "Yes", then you may feel guilty, if I say, "No", it could mean I don't care.' Again he paused, then shook his head. 'I'm not going to answer that, Shelley.'

  She was silent, bitterly regretting the careless words that had marred the tenuous beauty of the night. While she groped for a way of restoring the lost enchantment she heard the voices carrying through the clear air and knew that they no longer possessed the solitude of the temple.

  Quinn said, 'Sounds like more moonlight sightseers.'

  Shelley said nothing. She had seen the two figures picking their way over a rough, moss stubbled surface down the incline. The moonlight was brilliant now, a silver sheen over-tinting the silhouette of night and etching the sharp inky shadows of every angle. She was almost certain it was the boy and girl she had seen earlier in the day, and she was aware of a sudden irrational annoyance at their invasion.

  The voices stilled and the two figures veered round the slope and passed out of sight, to reappear from a hollowed incline not very far from where Shelley sat. They seemed oblivious that they might not be alone as they stopped and then sank down to contemplate the panorama of moonswept bay. Shelley could see the dark outlines of their heads and then the faint intermittent red sparkle of a cigarette being lit.

  Quinn said, 'I think it's the two with the Fiat. I wonder if she's wearing her new shawl.'

  Shelley nodded, uncaring that her silent response might not be seen. She knew that the whispering voices would suddenly cease with the showering sparks of a cigarette abruptly stubbed out, and when the two shadows merged and became one the rising bitterness threatened to choke her. Suddenly her throat was aching and the unshed tears were blurring the velvet and silver night.

  Almost desperately she turned her head away, afraid to trust herself to reply to the wry little observation Quinn made. Then he checked, but she did not see him turn rather sharply or notice him raise his hand and touch the drop of warm moisture glistening on his wrist.

  He said, 'Shelley, are you crying?'

  `Of course not.' She swallowed hard. 'Why should I cry on this—this gorgeous night?'

  `I don't know, darling, but I think you are.'

  The endearment broke her control. She turned convulsively and the next moment was weeping against his shoulder, pouring out the muffled incoherencies.

  `It's all spoilt! It's all my fault. I've spoilt everything for you and—you've just had to—to-- I should belong to you, and—and instead we're—you're just having to—'

  `Hush, Shelley! Stop it—you're not to weep like this!' His voice was low and urgent. 'Of course you belong to me.'

  `I don't. And you don't have to pretend. It was an awful mistake. We shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have got married. Not until— We shouldn't,' she repeated hopelessly.

  `Listen to me.' He held her away from him. 'I thought you'd understand. And what is there to pretend about? Do you think it's easier for me? Because it certainly isn't, and you won't make it any easier going on like this. And you seem to have lost sight of one fact. Belonging physically isn't the sole kind of belonging, you know. A very wonderful part, but on its own, with nothing else, it doesn't total a complete relationship. The honeymoon isn't marriage, Shelley, it's only the first page.'

  She stared at him, wanting desperately to find reassurance in his vehement words, but she could not escape the sense of failure which had tormented her in every waking moment when the cool barrier of restraint characterised the countless small encounters of living together which should have been warm with the secret intimacy of sharing.

  She said sadly, `I'm being silly again. I'm sorry. But it was with seeing—'

  `I know,' he interrupted. 'Remember, I saw them too. But it's for your sake, not mine.'

  She nodded and tried to smile. `I—I must look awful, and I don't seem to have a hankie. Could you ...?'

  `You never do, do you?' he said resignedly, watching the brushing of knuckles across moist lashes and groping in his pocket. 'Here, it's a bit creased, but it's a clean one.'

  `Thanks.' Ashamed of her absurd behaviour now, she reached out, intending to accept the handkerchief and turn away. But somehow the gesture faltered. The small exchange

  of movements went awry and instead she was back in his arms, her free arm tightening convulsively round his neck and the handkerchief crushed in her feverish hand. She felt his indrawn breath against her, his involuntary murmur of her name, and a shudder of relief tensed, then relaxed he
r body. This was where she longed to be.

  He kissed her, softly at first, his mouth tender as he drew her closer, and then with a deepening intensity that went to Shelley's head like a potent wine. This was the kiss of magic, the key to those long-dormant emotions that awaited its turning.

  His mouth brushed her hairline, her closed lids, found the small soft hollow behind her ear, and murmured a rueful curse as it encountered the taut silk folds of the scarf sling across her breast.

  'I knew it would foil me.'

  'It's trying to strangle me.'

  We'll have to—what are you trying to do, girl?'

  `Get rid of it—it's a nuisance. There, that's better ... Quinn, forget that awful bit of me ...'

  `I am trying ... against my better judgement ... don't clobber me with it, will you?'

  Her giggle was stifled abruptly, became a sigh which in turn was stilled. Unconscious now of hard rough stone grazing her shoulders, she slid deeper into his embrace and surrendered to the wild sweet oblivion. Eternal instinct guided her response, communicating with his stirring senses as the chain reaction of desire took over. A detached rationality within her tried to contend with the weighted, useless arm, to vanquish the impediment it was, wedged under him against some unseen obstruction. She did not really feel the twinges of protest through her shoulder, or register the grating pressure her convulsive movement caused in the moment before Quinn broke free with bewildering abruptness.

  He said sharply : `Was that your arm?'

  'I don't know ...' she blinked at him, not wanting to steady swimming senses. 'What's wrong?'

  'I'm not sure.' The uncertainty of tone was so unlike him she stared.

  He sat up. 'Let me see that arm—I felt it give under my weight, crack against the stone ... I hope to God it hasn't ...'

  Suddenly cold, she raised her arm and stared at the clumsy white blur. It looked and felt—and weighed! —as solid as ever, and it induced a wave of hatred that made her tremble. 'It hasn't,' she said bitterly, 'it's still there—very much still there.'

  He shook his head and a heavy sigh escaped him. 'Sorry, Shelley, we—I shouldn't have ... Come on, up you get. We'd better get back to a light and make sure there's no damage.'

  He pulled her to her feet, rescued the scarf and rapidly folded it into a triangle, then knotted it round her neck. 'Why didn't you tell me?' he demanded.

  'I didn't know.'

  'Surely you must have felt pressure on it.'

  'But I didn't. At least ...' she shook her head hopelessly, 'it was caught on something, but I've got used to it bumping against things and getting in the way.' Very near tears, and suddenly cold and aching and agitated all at the same time, she shook her head again and looked vaguely round for the handbag which should be lying about somewhere.

  'I've got it—here. Take my hand, come on,' he said impatiently, 'and watch your step.'

  She brushed a perfunctory hand over her skirt and stumbled away. There was little now that was loverlike as he guided her down the incline, and, alas, little left of the magic of the night. When they reached the car he switched on the headlights and in their brilliance made a frowning critical examination of the plaster. At last he straightened and gave a sigh of relief. 'It seems to be all right.'

  'Of course it's all right !' she said bitterly. 'There's about a mile of canvas or something embedded in it. Heavens, when the time comes the damn thing probably won't come off. They have to use great big shears—the stuff won't break or crack, or anything.'

  'No, but it'll bend. Does it feel all right?'

  `Yes,' she turned away, 'it feels all right, but I don't.'

  `That makes two of us, then.'

  In miserable silence she got into the car and watched the winding road open out of the darkness and rush under the long probing flares of the headlights. When he slowed to a halt in the hotel parking lot she got out and stared moodily into space while he locked the car and came round to her side. They had almost reached the hotel entrance before he broke the hour-long silence, only to observe in matter-of-fact tones : 'Your blouse wants tucking in—it's a bit untidy.'

  She stopped, repressing the childish retort—you were the one who made it untidy and stuffed the loose folds into the top of her skirt. She moved on, and he said dryly :

  `You'll get over it.'

  'Over what?'

  `That end of the world feeling.'

  She pretended not to hear and he put an arm lightly round her shoulders. 'I know it's a shame, but cheer up—it's only the psychologists' favourite bogey—frustration!'

  He was starting to laugh and with a small exclamation she twisted away from his grasp. 'You don't have to explain,' she said coldly, 'I've read Freud as well, and I don't think it's funny.' Her mouth trembled. 'It—it might be better if you—if you were a bit more understanding instead of—of—'

  His smile faded and his mouth compressed. 'And it might be a help if you started trying to grow up, Shelley.'

  Grimly he thrust open the swinging glass door of the reception hall and stood aside for her to pass. Numb now with misery, she walked past him with her head down, and failed to see the second thing that was waiting for her, or, strictly speaking, for Quinn.

  It was Myra Delane.

  CHAPTER VIII

  SHELLEY would never have claimed to possess an infallible memory, but on this occasion she would have been justified in boasting of its being completely accurate. Myra Delane was every bit as beautiful and confident and vivid as one brief memory had recorded—if anything, more so.

  A cool golden girl in a dazzling white tunic dress completely free of trimming except for a deep fringe hem that parted seductively with every movement of her slender tanned thighs, she sat opposite Shelley on the terrace and smiled charmingly, apparently oblivious of the male heads that were turning in passing, appraising and frankly speculating.

  `I insist,' she said firmly. 'Besides, it'll be an interesting experience for Shelley.'

  Quinn's glance was cool and enigmatic. It slid to Shelley, hesitated, then returned to Myra. 'It's our last day, you know, although we haven't made any definite plans.'

  `Then it'll make an unusual wind-up to your stay,' Myra said lightly, 'and I'm sure that being on her honeymoon should make Shelley immune to Gino's charm--if that's worrying you, Quinn!'

  It wasn't, thought Shelley bitterly. Since last night he'd been so cool he didn't look as though anything would worry him, least of all the possibility of his bride being overcome by the fascination of the handsome Gino Mariello, who was starring in the film from which certain scenes were to be shot on the island. Six months ago Shelley might have swooned along with a million other susceptible devotees at the mere thought of seeing the magnetic Latin in person, let alone meeting him. Now she couldn't evince the slightest spark of enthusiasm at the chance of spending a day on location with a film company, even though it was a privilege few were granted. But how could she cry off? Quinn seemed uncaring of how they spent the last day, and she had a cold little fear that he secretly welcomed Myra's intervention.

  The memory of last night returned in sad force. They had joined Myra and a group of the film people up on the roof garden, and Quinn had been smooth, charming and impeccably courteous, as though he hadn't a care in the world. They had talked and laughed and drank until midnight, when, to Shelley's relief, he had firmly but gracefully extricated them from the party. But the party facade had dropped from him like a cloak once they reached the seclusion of their room. Oh, he had remained courteous, had bound back her hair, undone the fastenings she couldn't reach, had brushed the dust off her bag, taking it from her when she had tried stubbornly to do the task herself, but there had been no teasing, no gentleness and no goodnight kiss.

  But what else could she expect? She had to be honest : she had accused him of not understanding, she had retreated into bitterness because the fiasco of the evening had induced an emotional reaction outside her range of experience and left her floundering in a bewilder
ed anguish with which she was incapable of coping. Then the advent of Myra had been the last straw. How could he laugh and talk meaningless pleasantries after ...? And with a woman who had brought him unhappiness. It didn't add up, unless ...

  `Shelley ?'

  She started and looked into his enquiring gaze.

  `There isn't anything particular you wanted to do today?'

  Not really.' She knew her expression was stiff and that Myra's shrewd eyes were not missing a single nuance, but to force a simulation of a carefree mien was beyond her at the moment. 'I did intend to do some shopping this morning, but it doesn't matter,' she said in a colourless tone.

  Myra gave no indication of noticing the marked lack of enthusiasm as she said gaily, 'Then that's settled. Though there's no guarantee that there'll be any action today, but still ...' Her gaze fell to Shelley's arm and her smile sobered to sympathy. 'What a shame it's spoilt things for you.'

  `It could have been worse,' Shelley said politely.

  `Yes, I know, but ...' Myra was silent a moment, then she looked at Quinn. 'This is my last fling. My appointment

  finally came through—London again. Just think : winter in London, after this!' she said ruefully.

  Quinn made a non-committal murmur, then Myra glanced at her watch and made a moue of mock dismay. 'I must rush—Gino will be waiting. You know the way and everything, don't you? See you later, then.' With a small friendly smile for Shelley, she stood up and moved gracefully along the terrace.

  There was a long silence when she had gone. Quinn drained his glass and toyed with the sunglasses he had discarded when he sat down. After a moment he donned them and turned his head. 'If you'd rather not accept the invitation, say so,' he said coolly.

  The dark glasses effectively screened his eyes and his mouth gave no hint of what he was thinking. She said uneasily : 'It's too late now. Besides, you want to go, don't you? You know some of those people.'

  He shrugged. 'It's as good a way as any of putting in the last day. We've about exhausted the place now.'