Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (reading an ebook TXT) 📕

and walked over toward them. Tim altered the position of one of the spotlights a little and winked at George. "I'll get hay fever if I hang around here, " he commented with a heavy attempt at a smile. "You carry on, George, you're doing a great job. Ciao, kids. I'll see you all later. " After humping his heavy bag into the corner of the studio he dropped it, then he climbed the spiral staircase to his bedroom, oblivious of the glances of curiosity that followed him from the studio floor. He locked the door, then flung himself on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

It had been his idea to leave. She had not argued. Subdued, scarcely speaking, she had driven him to Newport Station. There she had kissed him once, a long wistful kiss, full of kindness, but without passion.

"I'm so sorry, Tim, " she whispered. "I wish it could have been for real. "

"So do I, honey. " He had stroked her hair lightly, trying to memorize the touch of it beneath his hand. "So do I. "

With a groan he turned his face to the pillows to hide the wetness on his cheeks and he began to sob quietly, like a child.

Sometime later he heard George run up the spiral stairs and tap on the door. "Tim? Tim, can I come in?" The boy sounded excited and cheerful.

Tim did not answer. He pulled the pillows over his head and after a while he heard the patter of running shoes on the wrought-iron steps as George went down once more. Tim sighed. Sitting up, he blew his nose loudly, then he reached for the phone.

"Mrs. Griffiths? It's Tim Heacham. Tell me, did Miss Clifford get back safely?"

At the other end of the line Margiad Griffiths untied her apron with her free hand and stretched to hang it on the back of the kitchen door. "Why, Mr. Heacham, I'm so sorry, but I wasn't here when she came back. It was my daughter who saw her. Miss Clifford never said she'd be wanting the room again, you see, and it had gone. So sorry, I was. I'm afraid I don't know where she went. And I had another message here to give her too.... "

Tim closed his eyes wearily. "It doesn't matter, " he said. "Thanks anyway. I'll hope to see you again one day. " He hung up and threw himself back on the bed as, far below, the clang of the street door closing echoed up through the empty studio. George had gone.

Tim lay for a couple of hours staring out of the high windows that showed nothing but rooftops silhouetted against the purple storm clouds. At least it had stopped raining. His head ached and his throat was sore. He felt unbearably lonely.

Slowly he sat up at last. He leaned across the bed and unlocked a drawer in the nightstand next to it then drew out a box. He sat and looked at it for a long time, then slowly he opened the lid and pulled out the hypodermic, the narrow tourniquet, and a packet of powder.

To lose a woman twice, be it to destiny or to another man —what kind of man did that make him? What was it she had said once? That he reminded her of an Afghan hound! He laughed out loud, the bitter sound ringing around the empty room. At least he had one night to remember, one night she could never take away from him.

Methodically he went about his preparations, meticulously sterilizing the needle. It wasn't often he resorted to this; not yet. Snorting was usually enough; that and the cigarettes. Anything to keep the shadows at bay. But tonight he wanted to crash out all the way. Out into the whirling spaces beyond his mind.

The office was full of strange noises at night. Nick lay on the long, elegant couch, staring at the Venetian blind drawn down across the curtainless window. The streetlamps outside sent weird horizontal shadows tumbling through the slats and across the white carpet toward him like the rungs of a ladder. For the fiftieth time he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. His head was spinning, but Judy's words kept coming back to him. It's all a hoax... He told you who you were ... He told you what to do... Judy and her stupid redheaded temper! She had stormed at Sam and then at him, angry with them both for some reason, then she had grabbed her wet coat and run out into the rain.

When she had gone, he and Sam had had a furious argument.

Nick sighed and sat up slowly. It hadn't just been Judy. In this very room his mother had warned him; his gentle, loving mother, who worshiped Sam, had tried to tell him something; as good as said that Sam was dangerous. Nick shook his head wearily. Why should Sam want to harm him? It didn't make sense.

What had their quarrel been about? He couldn't even remember that now. He had asked Sam about the hypnosis but his brother had refused to be drawn, saying Judy was neurotic and sex-starved, and it was then that Nick had decided to go out for a walk. He had strolled slowly down Constitution Hill, staring up at the harsh light of the electric lanterns in the streaking rain, smelling the wet flowers and earth beyond the high walls of Buckingham Palace, then on around the Victoria Memorial, the palace huge and dark behind him, down Birdcage Walk, conscious of the lightning flickering now in the distance behind Big Ben. The roads were empty; Horseguards, bare and swept with rain, the lighted windows in the Haymarket, eerie in the empty street. He made his way slowly back up Piccadilly, and then, unable to face speaking to Sam again that night, he had come back to Berkeley Street and opened the locked office.

He paced up and down the carpet. Bet had