Suckers

Duncan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in the contents of the ashtray. I tried to kick-start the dialogue. 'Sorry about earlier — about what I said.'

'S'all right.' He was combing abstract designs into the ash with a spent match.

I tried again. 'She sings, does she?'

'Who?' His ears pricked up a bit. 'Oh, all the time. Non-stop. Didn't I tell you she used to be a singer?'

I nodded. 'You also said she'd had her portrait painted by Fernand Khnopff.'

He grunted, not really paying attention.

'Fernand Khnopff!' I repeated. 'Fernand Khnopff died in 1921.'

That got through to him. He frowned.

'1921,' I said again.

Half a dozen expressions flashed across his face in rapid succession. 'So?' he said at last. 'She's older than me.'

'She'd have to be quite a bit older. Work it out.'

Duncan got to his feet and began to prowl up and down. 'For Heaven's sake, what is this?' he muttered to himself. 'What does it matter how old she is?'

'She frightens me,' I said. 'You don't know what she can do.'

His face was set in a grimace. I wondered how much time I had before he lost his temper again. For a while he went on pacing, before coming to some sort of decision and parking himself firmly in front of me. 'I can't believe you're saying these things,' he growled. 'She's the sweetest, kindest, nicest person. You'll see.'

'I'm sure she is.' I shuddered at the memory of how close I'd come to meeting her. Perhaps now was the time to fill him in on the details. But he was saying something. I could see his lips moving. I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly, so I asked him to say it again.

'I said, she'll be here any minute now, you'll be able to see for yourself.'

'Jesus!' Before I knew it, I was on my feet, slamming my mug down so violently that tea slopped over the rim. 'Here? Now?'

He checked his watch. 'Any minute.'

'But…' I said the first thing that popped into my head. 'But it's too early, only seven o'clock.'

He snorted. 'What did you think? She only comes out after midnight? Grow up.'

I grabbed my bag. 'I'm off.'

'Fine,' he said, but he didn't step aside. For a second or two, we stood there face to face, and he looked genuinely upset to see me go. Under any other circumstances, I would have stayed. But not under these, no way. I went round him.

'Stay if you like,' he said, following me to the door but making no attempt to help as I fumbled with the lock. 'Maybe I should have introduced you before. Then you'd never have worked yourself up into this state.'

'I'm not in a state,' I snapped. 'And there's really no point in me staying, because none of this has anything to do with me, not really.' Finally I managed to pull the door open. I was on the point of stepping out on to the landing, but I didn't, because Violet was standing right there in front of me.

Somebody — probably me — made a small strangled noise.

'Ah,' she said, looking straight at me. 'My little shadow.'

'What?' asked Duncan.

She wafted past. I saw, but didn't feel, her furs brushing against my hand as she swept by. When I looked back, she was standing on tiptoe to kiss Duncan on the cheek. 'How sweet,' she was saying to him. 'You've brought me an audience. Or should we say a billet-doux?'

I turned back to the door. Escape was just a step away. The problem was, I couldn't move, not an inch. I was staring hard at my feet, willing them to walk, when I felt a soft voice at my ear.

'Don't go.'

It wasn't an entreaty. It was a command. She closed the door and double-locked it right in front of me, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. She slipped an arm around my waist, like an old chum, and walked me back into the living room.

And then, quite unexpectedly, I realized everything was going to be all right. Suddenly, she was no longer the ice princess, but warm and inviting, and all the tension between us had melted. It was as though we'd known each other for years. She slipped out of her coat, dropped a fur or two on the floor, and arranged herself on the sofa.

'Come, sit next to me,' she said, patting the seat with her tiny gloved hand. I had expected her to talk with a sinister accent, like Rosa Klebb in From Russia With Love, but her voice carried not a hint of Eastern Europe.

I sat down next to her. Duncan was left standing awkwardly in front of us. 'Violet,' he said, 'this is Dora.'

'Of course it is,' she purred, and smiled at me as though we were sharing a joke he couldn't possibly understand. Then she stretched out her hand and tapped the teapot. 'Duncan, darling, why don't you run along and brew us some fresh tea?'

Duncan shrugged helplessly as if to say, 'Well, what can you do?', and obediently trotted out to the kitchen with the half-empty pot. Violet adjusted her position so that her arm rested along the back of the sofa. 'Good,' she said. 'Now we can talk.'

'We can?'

'Don't look so serious. Please. I'm not going to eat you.' Her expression was so rueful that I burst out laughing. Being eaten was exactly what I'd been afraid of, but now those fears seemed ridiculous. I had been thinking of her in the abstract, as a mindless thirst that required regular quenching. It had-never occurred to me that she might be someone I could talk to. It had never occurred to me I might actually like her.

'You have many questions to ask,' she said, and there was an intensity in her gaze which made me feel I could have told her anything, anything at all, and she would have understood. I was suddenly convinced we were destined to become the most intimate of friends. I wanted to tell her that, but I couldn't find the right words. Her eyes were bright, brighter than anything else in the room. I could easily have looked away if I'd wanted — it was just that I didn't want to. The past weeks — the blood, the killings, the mausoleum — were a bad dream. And, even if they hadn't been a dream, even if they'd really happened, it was becoming clear to me now that, like everyone else, she had her reasons.

'All a matter of perspective,' she said softly, and for a few tantalizing seconds she allowed me into her mind. The vision there was vast and boundless. I felt certain that, if only I did the right thing, she would allow me to be a part of it. I felt a surge of excitement. If only I played this right, I could live for ever.

'So,' she said at last. I wondered if I'd been asleep. Something had just happened and I'd missed it. I was conscious that her arm was now draped across my shoulders — I could feel the weight of it there, and I knew instinctively that I didn't have the strength to remove it. I became aware of the almost absent-minded way in which her velvet-gloved fingers were caressing the back of my neck, and I didn't dare move, it was such a soothing sensation, and I didn't want it to stop, I wanted it to go on and on. Just before I closed my eyes, I saw she had leant forward so her face was inches away from my own, and her lips were very red and slightly parted, she was whispering something but I couldn't quite make out the words as she continued to stroke the back of my neck with one of her hands while the other tugged at my collar, and I wanted to help so I tilted my head back, and listened to the sound of my own breathing, in and out, in and out, and there, was no point in resisting, it would have been too much effort, and all for nothing, because it didn't matter, nothing mattered, nothing would ever matter again.

I was just about to drift off into a terminal reverie when there was an ear-splitting crash. I felt a rush of disappointment such as I had never felt before in my life. Everything had been perfect, and now it was spoiled. Reluctantly, I forced my eyes open.