‘Er... I’ve not heard of that. Is it from a new system?’
Not wishing to explain, Aninka nodded. ‘I read about it in a book.’
‘Oh, you must tell me about it.’
Aninka shrugged. ‘Sorry. I borrowed it from a friend, ages ago. Can’t remember the title.’
‘Oh...’ Enid’s face fell. She would no doubt be scouring her mail order catalogues at the first opportunity.
Dinner was served at nine.
The party moved into the dining room, where an enormous table, covered in black crushed velvet and adorned with silver cutlery awaited the feasters. Othman and Aninka were seated on either side of Wendy Marks at the head of the table. Misty Kennedy pushed herself in beside Othman, earning malevolent stares from Serafina who found herself between two of the wispy beards. Nick Emmett sat next to Aninka.
As Wendy dived back and forth from table to hostess trolley, serving exquisitely prepared dishes to her guests, Aninka wondered how this tame and convivial gathering could turn into something which had pricked the interest of Peverel Othman. It all seemed so middle-class and ordinary, despite the clothes and the prevailing interest in astrology. Aninka liked the people for their very ordinariness; they were friendly, and articulate enough to be pleasant dinner companions. Nick Emmett had heard of her work, and claimed to have recently bought a birthday card for a friend bearing one of her paintings. ‘Inanna Removing Her Jewelled Collar at the Gate,’ he said.
Aninka was impressed he’d remembered the title, and told him to visit her exhibition in town where the original was displayed.
‘Perhaps you could show it to me yourself, and we could have lunch afterwards,’ he offered.
Aninka pulled a sly, yet smiling face, to show him she had his measure. ‘Perhaps. I’m very busy,’ she said.
Wendy, possibly having noticed Nick was manoeuvring for a seduction, distracted Aninka’s attention. She told her how she was a picture framer and restorer, and that her husband, Ivan, had a successful antiques business, with a small gallery attached to his shop. Clearly, Wendy’s tastes were very much in accord with Aninka’s. She felt it necessary to apologise for not having any of Aninka’s work.
Misty Kennedy appeared to have been deep in breathy conversation with Othman, but was obviously the sort of woman who kept a separate antenna tuned to every conversation in the room. ‘I help out, you know,’ she interrupted. ‘Buying stock, especially paintings. Perhaps we could put one of yours in the gallery, dear.’
Aninka noticed that Wendy had flushed a little. ‘Misty helps Ivan out,’ she said quietly, and then to Misty, ‘I’m sure Aninka doesn’t need to try and sell her work in little shops like ours.’
‘I’d love to give you a print, Wendy,’ Aninka said, feeling suddenly defensive for the woman. ‘Not for the shop, for yourself. Perhaps you’d like to come and choose one. I have plenty at my flat in town.’
Wendy looked slightly surprised at the offer. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’m sure I don’t deserve it.’
Aninka shook her head. ‘Please. I’d like to.’
Wendy smiled tightly and for the briefest of moments, touched Aninka’s hand. ‘Thank you.’
After the pavlova had been cleared away and coffee had been consumed, Wendy said, ‘I hope you’d like to attend a small ritual we’ll enact shortly. It isn’t a working rite, rather a theatrical ceremony.’
Aninka glanced around the room. ‘Here? Of course, I mean, I’d love to...’
Wendy laughed. ‘Oh, I know how we must appear to you! Our excursions into the occult are gentle and therapeutic. We have an interest in ancient cultures — as do you, of course. I like to try and recreate a feeling for the past, when life was...’ She shrugged. ‘...I can’t say less violent or more artistic, because I’m sure that’s simply a glamorised view, but at least when people perhaps had more integrity, and an appreciation of life, death and the world around them. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Very much so,’ Aninka said. ‘If your ‘therapeutic rituals’ celebrate those things, then you must be on the right track.’
Wendy smiled in what might have been relief. Aninka realised the woman didn’t want to appear shallow or stupid.
‘We have a temple in the garage,’ she said.
Ivan Marks had converted the two car garage into a replica of a Sumerian temple, the details of which he and Wendy had gleaned from books on archaeology and children’s encyclopaedias of the ancient world. Although many of the details were modern embellishments, Aninka was impressed by what she saw. The breeze blocked walls were hidden by columns and hangings. Huge bowls of incense burned in the shadows. Lights flickered in chalices of wax. Behind an altar at the back of the garage, the wall had been plaster boarded, and someone had painted, quite effectively, simplistic versions of ancient Sumerian bas-reliefs, representing some of the mythical epics: scenes from the stories of Gilgamesh and the Flood. Around the edge, zoomorphic god-forms were depicted, bestowing gifts upon the smaller figures of men and women. The atmosphere was altogether conducive to meditation and the working of magic. There were no unpleasant reverberations lingering in the air, which confirmed Wendy’s claims about the gentle nature of their work. Prior to the ritual, the celebrants all disappeared into the guest rooms of the house and emerged in full costume: fringed robes, sashes and stylised wigs. Enid, it appeared, was the official seamstress of the group, and had an eye for detail. No-one suggested Aninka or Othman should get changed. They were directed to a wooden bench at the back of the temple and requested to sit quietly while the ritual was performed.
In the event, very little magic took place, as the group re-enacted the Biblical story of Nebuchadnezzar and his vizier/prophet, Daniel. Aninka realised she was spectating at a mystical play rather than a ritual. Ivan Marks, who’d written the script, had expanded upon the story, and later admitted to Aninka that he’d made the embellishments up, rather than researched them from old documents. Othman smiled once or twice at Aninka, but made no whispered remarks. In fact, he’d seemed quite distant all evening.
Later, the group went back into the house and the wine was opened. Although the group had not fasted to work, Aninka noticed they had not touched alcohol until their ceremony was completed.
The evening ended pleasantly. Aninka gave Wendy Marks her number and told her to call soon. Nick Emmett was diverted with a vague promise. Serafina glowered as Aninka preceded Othman from the house to the car. Aninka was surprised he’d maintained such a laid-back presence, apparently content to sit back and watch the group hover around her instead. As they belted up in the car, with Wendy and Ivan standing on the threshold of the house to wave goodbye, Aninka wondered again what Othman’s interest was in these people. They were nice — no other word for it — but she couldn’t see how they could possibly fascinate someone like Peverel Othman, unless he was something other than he appeared.
As they drove off down Bronte Close, Aninka asked, ‘How did you meet them?’
Othman lit a cigarette, the first he’d had all night. ‘Through the Goth wench.’
‘Serafina.’ Aninka noticed her own voice was sharp.
‘Yeah. Met her at a club.’
‘I can’t help wondering how she got involved with them. They’re all very much of a type, but for her.’
‘Then you must ask her,’ Othman said.
‘They don’t seem your type either,’ Aninka added, ignoring his last remark.
‘How do you now what my type is?’ he enquired.
‘Just a hunch.’
Othman snickered to himself. ‘They’re like a private ant colony,’ he said. ‘I love to watch them, study their group dynamics.’
‘How altruistic of you!’
‘Well, at least I’m not tempted to show off!’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘No. That business about the feathered serpent! What are you on?’
Aninka slammed on the brakes. They had almost reached the dual carriageway once more. ‘Wha
t the hell do you mean?’
Othman gazed straight ahead. ‘Keep driving, my dear, we’re almost there.’
‘You’re an insulting, posturing dickhead. Get out of my car.’
Othman actually looked taken aback. ‘Oh, have we stopped playing now?’
‘We never started. Get out!’ Aninka drummed her fingernails against the steering wheel, glaring through the windscreen. Some part of her wondered whether Othman would do something terrible now. Attack her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She risked a glance at him. ‘I don’t know what it is we’re doing, seeing each other. It’s weird. You’re just so snide.’
‘I’m too old,’ he answered. ‘I forget... sometimes. Aninka, I know you. You know me. You’re right. I am Grigori.’
Aninka rolled her eyes. She felt both relieved and alarmed. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say? What has all this stupid charade been for?’
Othman smiled engagingly, putting his head on one side. ‘I get bored easily. I wanted to keep you guessing.’
Aninka’s car glided away from the kerb. The affair began that night.
Aninka could say no more than this to Enniel. The details of her love-making with Peverel Othman were private. Enniel made no comment when she abruptly ceased her narrative, other than to say, ‘Shall we pause for the day now?’
Aninka nodded. ‘Yes. All right.’ She was sitting on the sofa, while Enniel was a distant presence behind his desk. It had been another gloomy day; night had crept down unnoticeably through a misty fusc.
Aninka stood up to stretch her legs. Enniel’s office felt cold. ‘I should have realised all was not right,’ she said. ‘I had suspicions, but I ignored them.’
‘He was a good lover, of course,’ Enniel remarked.
When Aninka looked at him, he was staring at her without embarrassment. She turned away, shrugged, realised she was hugging herself. ‘Yes. I suppose I fell in love with him. He was infuriating sometimes, with his capricious ways, and his secretiveness, but I always felt there was some great sadness inside him.’ She laughed coldly. ‘Why is it a female always believes she can heal the soul of a grieving male? He was hiding tragedy within. I could smell it, and I wanted to draw it out.’
It pained her to remember their first kiss, in the dark of her living room. He’d grabbed her the moment the door was closed. No-one had ever kissed her like that; tenderness and force in equal measure. They had made love upon the floor. His beauty had been like a scorching flame, and his gentleness had made her cry with pleasure and a wistful melancholy. The memory was too sweet, and therefore agonising to recall. She knew she would never experience any of that again, and it was hard to carry on living, knowing that. Even now, the act of recollection brought tears to her eyes.
‘This is so difficult,’ she said to Enniel.
He poured her a large brandy and brought it over to her without words, offering her his silk handkerchief along with the glass. ‘It is important you tell me everything,’ he said. ‘You don’t know how important.’
Aninka blinked at him, sipping the fiery liquor. ‘He must be punished.’
Enniel touched her face. ‘Rest assured, that will happen, and is doubtless happening already. He will be punishing himself.’
Aninka shook her head fiercely. ‘I don’t think so! Othman is a beast, an Anakim, without compassion!’
‘He may be these things,’ Enniel said gently, and then drew in his breath, as if he’d been about to say more, but had changed his mind.
‘Yes?’ Aninka prompted. ‘What else?’
Enniel shook his head and smiled. ‘It is you who has the information, my dear. I am merely a sympathetic ear.’
He doesn’t realise I’ve grown up, Aninka thought. He believes I can’t tell he’s lying to me.
Chapter Seven
Sunday, 18th October: Little Moor
Verity had been in a furious temper when she’d gone to bed on Saturday night. It had been altogether a strange day. First the dreams, then the arrival of the cat, then the conversation with Daniel. Verity was used to routine and none of these things happened regularly. She had deliberately buried all thoughts of her past, and they rarely disinterred themselves to worry her. Why she should suddenly start dreaming of people she had long discarded, she could not imagine. Nothing had happened to invoke them. She felt very peculiar all day, somehow liquid in her joints and floating in her mind. The dreams had obviously disrupted her sleep more than she’d realised. Neither Louis nor Daniel seemed to notice anything different about her.
The black cat lay contentedly before the range in the kitchen all day, interrupting his rest only to eat the sliced chicken Verity put before him and drink a dish of milk. She knew in her heart he was going to stay, even though he had evidently been cared for recently. She wondered what she should call him; he was so big and so black. The name ‘Satan’ sprang to mind, for it seemed apt, but Verity shrank from calling the word out loud anywhere in the house. She felt spooked enough as it was. Instead, she decided to call him Raven; that was a black enough name without being too sinister. Louis had seemed pleased about the cat. Verity knew her father thought that caring for the animal would be good for her, but his misguided sentimentality did not gall her enough to throw the creature out.
While they ate their dinner that evening — Daniel secreted upstairs in his lair — Louis had said to her, ‘It’s good to have a pet. We need some life about the place.’
Verity shrugged and daintily spooned soup into her mouth. She wished her father would drop the subject. It was nothing to do with him.
‘What was that racket this morning?’ Louis asked. ‘It woke me.’
‘Daniel,’ Verity answered. ‘He’d lost his key.’
‘Ah...’
‘And how was your evening at The White House?’ It was an act of charity, Verity felt, to ask Louis about his activities.
‘Very nice,’ Louis answered, and then paused significantly. Verity sensed an unwelcome remark was imminent.
‘We should have the Eagers over for dinner some time,’ Louis said. ‘I’m always eating there.’
Verity grimaced, wondering whether she could stomach a whole evening of Barbara Eager’s forced jollity. ‘As you like,’ she said. It was as if Louis had been asking her permission.
‘We could have a bit of a dinner party,’ Louis said. ‘Invite a couple of Daniel’s friends. The Winters, perhaps.’
This unexpected suggestion jolted Verity out of her complacency. ‘The Winters? Are you serious? I doubt they know how to use knives and forks.’
Louis frowned. ‘Don’t be a snob, Vez. Lily Winter seems a pleasant girl.’
‘She might be, but Owen Winter is a filthy slob. I don’t know how you can contemplate having him in the house.’
‘Barbara seems to think they’re both OK.’
‘Oh well, that’s settled then!’ Verity snapped. ‘No doubt Mrs Eager thinks they’re quaint, like an arrangement of dried flowers or rusty old farm machinery used as ornaments. Yes, I can just see Owen Winter as a rustic ornament in The White House!’
‘I wish you wouldn’t be so snappy all the time,’ Louis said. ‘The Winters might be a bit scruffy, but they have no parents, so they’re bound to run a bit wild. It wouldn’t do any harm to be friendly.’
By this, Verity gathered Barbara Eager must have said something about the Winters the previous night. Do-gooding busy-body. ‘Oh, honestly, Dad! Owen Winter is a bad influence on Daniel. You shouldn’t encourage him. They were out all night on Friday, God knows what they get up to. Aren’t you concerned what Daniel might be doing?’
For a moment, father and daughter looked at one another intensely. Then Louis seemed to gather himself together. ‘I don’t believe you care, madam!’ He struggled awkwardly to his feet. ‘I’ll arrange something for next week. It’s about time we started socialising more.’
So Verity had gone to bed in a foul mood, her temper alleviate
d only by the attentions of the cat, who trotted up the stairs at her side, his long tail brushing her legs. Things are getting out of control, she thought, and then banished the idea. No. No. Bad to let things get out of control. Let Louis have his little dinner party. It was bound to be a disaster. The thought of facing Owen Winter’s satyr smile by candlelight was chilling. Still, she could be as rude to him as she liked. She didn’t care what the Eagers thought, or Winter’s mousy sister. Perhaps the Winters wouldn’t accept an invitation to Low Mede.
She lay in bed fantasising a hundred witty retorts across the dinner table. The cat jumped onto the bed and began washing itself. She could feel his comforting weight against her legs, his soft, private purr.
In the morning, she’d woken to the distant chime of church bells from a neighbouring village. She heard Raven chirruping, the soft thump of his feet as he ran across the floor. Her window was open a crack. It admitted the unmistakable smells of autumn. Sunlight fell dreamily into the room. Everything seemed to be in soft focus. Verity was aware that she had awoken in good spirits. She sat up in bed, smiling down at the cat, who was rolling around on the floor. Then, her face creased into a slight frown of disapproval. Raven appeared to be fighting with her underwear; biting the fabric, whilst mewing and purring to himself. There was something distinctly lascivious about his behaviour, and Verity was a little disgusted by his evident enjoyment of the smells her body had left upon the cloth. She clapped her hands and said ‘Hey!’ The cat lay back and stared at her through slitted eyes, his back legs still idly kicking, entangled in the straps of her bra.