A couple of sample stories. Moths, and afterwards, Sliding Down The Slippery Slip. Moths is a 19000 word
novella.
REVIEWS OF MOTHS “`Moths' is a reprint of the critically praised long story. The readers who still don't know it will be chilled to the bone, while those already familiar with it will be glad to plunge once again into a story which reminds me of those black‑and‑white horror movies that make you hold your breath for much of the time. It's time for Maynard and Sims to be known as authors in the so‑called mass market, and not just in the small world of limited editions.” ALL HALLOWS, CANADA. “Moths - the creepy, shape-changer tale with Oriental flavours far, far different from those you order from the Takeaway.” DEREK M FOX, UK Writer. “Not
content to simply revise ancient lore or occult traditions,
Maynard and Sims prove themselves modern
mythmakers in their own right,
creating believable, larger than life embodiments
of evil no less breath taking than the
deities found in cross-cultural sacred texts. Perhaps no
where is their singular ability of crafting new
night terrors from universal elements of
our condition more apparent than in "Moths," a
novella deservedly recognized by the horror and
fantasy community. Their
conceptualization of "The Tashkai," a demon capable of draining the talents
from those vulnerable human beings it infatuates
with its presence, is as fascinating as it
is evocative of people in our own world who do the same,
using sheer force of personality to drain from
admirers the very thing that makes them
individuals. “Briefly. Moths concerns a well off and happy young couple, Heather and David, who make their way to a stately old hall in deepest Wiltshire to visit David's childhood friend Simon. But all is not as it seems... The authors have a grasp of craftsmanship, which many a writer might envy, alongside an eye for detail and a knack for unobtrusive but telling characterisation. Subtle notes of menace sound within the first few lines, and continue to grow in volume and resonance right up to a marvellous climax. All in all, a superb piece of fiction that augurs well for the future. Devotees of James, Aycliffe or Campbell, take note.” ZENE, UK.
“Ooh, ooh, ooooh, get this one. We're talking seriously wow here. It digs
its claws into you then drags you willingly through a tense tale of secrets
and Japanese style mythos and you can practically taste the impending doom
in the air. “ Maynard and Sims are familiar names to those who know. Not only have they set up and run the superlative Enigmatic Press, but they have a very fine reputation for supernatural tale‑telling of their own. Moths is a very fine example of this duo's gift. Unpredictable, creepy and disturbing, the tale deals with the strangeness of David Alywin's old friend Simon Desborough, recently returned from Japan with a new fiancée. Visiting the Desborough estates deep in Wiltshire, David notices a strange tension in his friend. Something disturbs him also about bride in preparation Anna Otani, and her oriental family. When he discovers, to his horror, that the Otani’s are now owners of the Desborough assets, he digs deep to find out just what is going on. What he finds underlying events, the monstrous Tashkai, are beyond all imagining. Slow building; the novella paints clearly the culture clash between the Otani and the British players. Menace seeps through the pages, and it is the oppression of niggles that turn up the heat. A thing not right here, something just off‑kilter there ‑ the effect is quite beautiful in its understated power. When plot lurches forward, there is a real sense of unpredictability; neither the main players nor we have time to gather ourselves for the explosion. Among the triumphs of this spooky little piece are the villains in question, the Tashkai. Maynard and Sims have reached into Japanese culture to create a unique and disturbing monster in the classic tradition. Though they share some traits with the vampire, there is a real originality at work here, a discontentment with tired motifs, and the creation of something startlingly new. It’s easy to forget how terrifying the unknown really is. If only more writers worked so hard to take our comforting nightmares away from us, to replace them with such horrifying creatures as this. In tone and mood, it is easy to see why the work of this partnership is often compared to M R James. If James had a crown for the passing, to Maynard and Sims it would have to go.” RICHARD WRIGHT, UK Writer. “You passed the test - I'm not a regular reader of supernatural stories, but I was very impressed by Moths - an exciting story, told with great skill and just the right amount of detail, excellent characterisation, superbly-paced suspense, and the Tashkai was done so well I don't even know if it's a 'real' myth... a grim and ultimately tragic and moving tale.” Comments from STEVE REDWOOD, UK Writer
MOTHSSimon Desborough stared out through the leaded glass of the bedroom window at the approaching car as it meandered slowly along the lane. Soon the occupants would see the lights of the house and the lights would draw them in, a beacon in the early evening twilight. On the bed behind him something moved sensuously under the sheet, silky, fluid movements that betrayed growing anticipation and rising excitement. Desborough turned away from the window and threw a desultory glance at the bed. "They're here. You'd better get ready." Then he walked from the bedroom, closed the door behind him, and prepared himself to greet his guests. In the battered BMW, Heather Grant turned to her boyfriend of just three months. "Are you sure Simon won't mind you bringing me along?" David Aylwin negotiated a pothole in the lane, allowing the power steering to do most of the work for him. "Of course he won't mind, he's expecting it. I told him I was bringing you, remember?" Through a stand of elms Heather caught brief glimpses of a house, a mighty structure that called upon influences from several different architectural styles. A solid Victorian, redbrick building that boasted Gothic elements in its towers and turrets, yet finessed by the Regency portico and windows that presented a more refined appearance to the world. An annexe stood on the west side of the house, connected to the main building, but seeming to stand alone in its Edwardian simplicity. "Is that the house?" she asked. "Desborough Hall," David said. "Rather grand isn't it?" "You'll get used to it after a while." The car crunched onto the gravel forecourt, and David stopped the engine as Simon opened the front door and came down the steps to meet them. He regarded David coolly for a moment then a huge grin spread over his face and he hugged his friend. "It's been too bloody long," he said warmly. "Two years and only one letter, you uncommunicative bastard," David said, and threw a mock punch. "How the hell are you?" "Fine, just fine," Simon said, and turned to Heather. "Well, for once you didn't exaggerate, David. She's as beautiful as you said she was." Heather felt her cheeks flush. To hide her embarrassment she leaned forward and kissed Simon on the cheek. "David's told me so much about you, I feel that I know you already," she said. "I can't wait to see inside the house either. David tells me you have an amazing collection of art." Simon laughed. "If no-one's warned you yet, let me be the first. David exaggerates wildly about most things. It's part of his charm." "Nonsense," David said. "The house is a bloody museum." "Come inside, then. You can judge for yourself." He led them up the steps to the front door. "You both look done in," he said affably. "I'll show you to your rooms and you can freshen up. Drinks at seven in the morning room, dinner at eight, black tie. The others should be here soon." David paused on the top step. "Others?" "Just a few friends and neighbours, nothing too elaborate. They wanted a get together to welcome me back to the country. I thought tonight would be as good a time as any." They followed him into the house. The entrance hall was huge, its marble floor laid out in a chess-board of black and white squares, so brightly polished it squeaked under their feet. Heather looked about her with excitement and something close to awe. The only time she had been in a house as impressive as this she had had to pay for a guided tour. As a former art student her eyes consumed the details of the hall greedily. From the Frederick Leighton original at the top of the sweeping horseshoe staircase, to the cabinet containing a breath-taking collection of Lalique glass; from the gilt and crystal chandeliers, to the deceptive simplicity of the Tiffany lamp that shared a small walnut table with a, decidedly 'fifties style, black bakerlite telephone. An eclectic assembly of art, untrammelled by one dominant style or trend, revelling in the disparate nature of its own randomness. A sheer delight. And this was just the hall. She could not wait to see the rest of the house. An old man appeared from one of the rooms leading off from the hall; small, stooped, with an oriental cast to his features. "Akira will fetch your bags in and take them up to your rooms," Simon said, then barked an order in fluent Japanese at the old man. Akira kept his eyes downcast but acknowledged the command with a slight inclination of his head. With shuffling steps he progressed to the open front door. They made their way up the curving staircase, Simon stopping every so often to point out a new delight to Heather. "This is a portrait of my great grandfather," he said, stopping at a large canvass depicting a dashing looking man in military uniform astride a chestnut horse. "How the artist got the horse to pose so well is beyond me." Heather laughed. She already liked Simon Desborough enormously. The stairs led onto a small landing and from there into a long and wide passageway with doors set in the walls at regular intervals. Between the doors the walls strained under the weight of more paintings, giving Heather the impression she was walking through an art gallery. "That's a Matisse," she said, stopping in front of a small and beautifully executed painting of a nude woman. "My grandmother knew him briefly when he was at the Academie Julian," Simon said blithely. "She posed for him a few times." "This is your grandmother?" Heather said. "She was lovely. Even in old age, you could still see her beauty." He stopped outside a door and opened it. "Heather, we've put you in the Blue Room. David, you're in the Red Room, but then you probably expected that." He turned to Heather. "David always used to sleep in the Red Room when he came to stay. Sort of a tradition." He noticed Heather and David exchange a look, and ignored it. He opened the door wide and ushered Heather inside. Akira appeared at the end of the passageway, carrying David and Heather's bags. His wiry frame belied a deceptive strength as he carried the bags along the passageway with little effort. Heather took her bag with a nod of thanks and entered the bedroom. "Come on, David. Let's leave Heather to get settled in. You know the way." To Heather he said, "Three doors up on the left," and winked. He closed the door and trotted to catch up with David, who had already found his room. David threw himself onto the bed and folded his arms behind his head. "It's good to be back here," he said as Simon entered the room. "It's good that you're back here. It's been bloody miserable since you left." "I don't know," Simon said, and sat down on the bed next to his friend. "It seems that Heather's doing you the world of good. I've never seen you looking so well." David shrugged. "Early days. It's only been three months. But you're right, she is pretty wonderful." He sat up abruptly. "What's all this business with separate rooms? Are you deliberately trying to thwart my love life?" Simon laughed. "Not at all. But I didn't know how far things had progressed with you two, and it's not really something a chap can ask over the phone." "Fair enough," David said, and reclined on the bed again. "Talking of people's love life, I ran into Johnny Foxworth the other day. He tells me you brought someone back with you from Japan." A frown appeared fleetingly on Simon's face. "Foxworth should learn to keep his mouth shut and his nose out of other peoples' business," he said tightly. "I'm sure he didn't mean any harm. He always was a terrible gossip." "He told you, of course, that he came here on the cadge?" "He didn't, but it doesn't surprise me. He was the same at Oxford. Spent his entire grant on booze and women, then pleaded poverty to his friends. I grew wise to him after the first year. Three loans, none of which were ever repaid. I pulled the plug after that." "I'm afraid I sent him packing. But he was right. I have brought someone back with me. In fact I brought several people back with me. You saw Akira when you arrived. He was my servant in Kyoto, and very good at his job so I was reluctant to let him go. His wife, Toshiyo, is cook and housekeeper here. She has a way with western cuisine which is surprising to say the least..." "You're prevaricating," David chided. Simon got to his feet. "Indeed I am. But don't worry, all will become clear later." He walked to the door. "There are clean towels in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. Anything else you need?" "I could murder a coffee." "I'll have a pot sent up." "You're really not going to tell me?" "Be patient," Simon said, and left the room. David frowned and watched the door close, then shrugged and started to unpack his bag.
In her room Heather was standing at the window as David entered. He put the two cups of coffee down on the dressing table and came up behind her, putting his arms around her waist. He kissed the nape of her neck. "It's a wonderful house," she said, leaning into him. "So you're not disappointed you came?" "Far from it. Simon is sweet. I thought that kind of old-world courtesy had gone out of fashion. Fancy putting us in separate rooms." "He's always been the same. His parents were quite old when they had him, and I suppose being brought up in a place like this with a nanny and servants protected him from the harshness of modern life. He's always had one foot firmly in the past." Heather did not appear to be listening to him. She was leaning forward in his arms, staring hard out through the window. Her room overlooked the back garden and, although the twilight had deepened to a gloomy dusk, she could still make out the bold elliptical shapes of the flower beds, the dark hexagon of the ornamental pond and, on the eastern side of the garden, the skeletal outline of a glass summerhouse. Beyond the sloping lawn the garden dissolved into orchard, with the crowns of budding apple, pear, cherry and plum trees giving a soft verdant border to the more formal garden. "Did you see that?" she asked. David mumbled something but was nuzzling her neck again, breathing in her subtle perfume, becoming aroused by the musky scent. She pulled away from his embrace, pressing her face to the glass, shielding her eyes from the peripheral light with her hands. "I'm sure I saw a light moving through the trees." "Fireflies," he said dismissively, trying to draw her back to his arms. "Stronger than that. More like a torch or a lantern. It's gone now." She turned away from the window to become enwrapped in his embrace again. Curling her arms around David's neck, she kissed him and twisted her wrist to see her watch. "We'd better get ready for dinner," she said, and went across to the bed to unpack her suitcase. He followed her and slipped his hand inside the front of her blouse. "We've got an hour yet," he said. "And I don't need three guesses to tell me what you'd like to do in that time." He pushed her onto the bed. "I need a shower," she protested. "So will I...afterwards," he said and kissed her.
The brass fittings in the bathroom were polished to a high, gleaming lustre and their Victorian elegance combined with the plain white tiles to give the room a modern designer feel. Heather turned on the taps for the shower and undressed as the water hissed and gurgled in the pipes. The showerhead again was brass, jutting out from the wall above the freestanding cast-iron bath. Finally the water gushed forth and she stepped quickly under it, drawing the shower-curtain around her. The temperature of the water was perfect and she let it soak her body, easing away the aches in her limbs caused by several hours of being cramped up in the car. She rubbed shampoo into her cropped blonde hair, massaging her scalp with her fingers, releasing the tensions that had built up over the course of the day. Ducking her head under the spray she washed the lather from her hair, turned off the shower and stepped out onto the cold, tiled floor. She pulled a towel from the heated rail and wrapped it about her in a sarong. With another warm towel she patted her hair. As she went through the mechanical routine of drying herself she felt a draught playing on her back. Her skin was prickling and she had the curious sensation that she was being watched. Her back was to the door and she felt an urge to look over her shoulder, but fought it down, telling herself she was being stupid. She continued to rub at her hair with the towel. Unfamiliar surroundings and the sheer antiquity of the place were conspiring to unsettle her. Still, no matter how much she told herself she was being ridiculous, she could not shake off the feeling that she was not alone in the bathroom. The moisture on her body started to steam, and her breath began to mist as the temperature of the room dropped sharply. Unable to contain the unease any longer she spun round in time to see the bathroom door closing. It settled in its frame with a soft click and for a second she thought she could hear footsteps receding down the passage. Until then she was not aware she had been holding her breath. Now she let it out in a long gasp, ran to the door and tugged at the handle. It was locked. Fumbling with the key she unlocked the door and pulled it open. Outside, the passageway was deserted. She stood for a moment, breathing hard, before closing the door and twisting the key in the lock, angry with herself. Her imagination was playing tricks on her. She was sure it was just a combination of tiredness and the unfamiliarity of the old house. She quickly gathered up her clothes and hurried back to her room.
David struggled into the trousers of his dinner suit, feeling the effects of three months of over-indulgence in the tightness of the waistband. Since meeting Heather his life had been a whirl of candle-lit dinners in expensive restaurants, and weekend parties where drink ran freely and food was in abundance. He had never before been with anyone who knew so many people and had such an active social life. Heather had turned his world around. With her huge circle of friends she had taken his solitary, almost monastic, life and stood it on its head. This weekend, spent in the country in the company of his old university friend was important to him, if only to show to Heather that he had some friends of his own who could entertain as lavishly as hers. So far he was not disappointed. He had visited Desborough Hall many times during his years at university. The first time, a shooting party organised by Desborough's father, he had been bowled over by the grandeur of the place, but on subsequent visits he became more used to the opulence of his surroundings and, as such, became much more at ease with Simon's parents and the company they liked to keep. The news of their death came as a massive blow to him. He had lost two people from his life that he admired and liked enormously. And in such a stupid and futile way. An accident in their Bentley. A drunken chauffeur and a winding country road. An unforgiving oak tree, ploughed into at seventy miles an hour. No survivors. It had nearly broken his heart. The visit this weekend served a dual purpose. To see his old friend again after a long two years' absence, and a chance to lay the ghosts of Sir Frederick and Lady Jane Desborough. So far it had been only partly successful. He still half-expected to walk into a room and see the larger than life figure of Freddy Desborough, puffing on his customary large Havana, dominating the room with his sheer presence. Jane he missed for other reasons. Having never been close to his own mother, Jane had become a much-trusted confidante. Someone he could turn to and tell his innermost thoughts, and who guided him with kindness and intuitive good sense. It was the loss of Jane he felt most keenly. Without her sound advice he had spent the last three years rudderless, drifting on a lake of broken relationships and shattered dreams. He hoped things would work out better with Heather, but it was still too early to say. He wondered, as he knotted his bow tie, what Jane Desborough would have made of Heather. He liked to think she would have approved. From outside he heard the sound of a car pulling up. Doors opened and slammed, and the sound of voices drifted up to him. The other guests were beginning to arrive.
Drinks were being served in the morning room. There were a dozen guests and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to look at David and Heather as they entered the room. David scanned the faces and recognised no one; Heather smiled uncertainly. At the grand piano in the corner a young Japanese woman was feeling her way cautiously through a Gershwin tune, watched by a small, but attentive, audience. Of Simon there was no sign. The woman stopped playing and excused herself to her audience, gliding across the room, hand outstretched, to greet David and Heather. Heather wanted to shrink into herself, to disappear. The simple black dress she was wearing, that had looked so elegant and chic in the privacy of the bedroom, seemed plain and dowdy compared to the stylish and expensive clothes the other women in the room were wearing. She felt completely under-dressed. "I'm Anna Otani, Simon's fiancé," the Japanese woman said lightly. Her accent was not English, but neither was it Japanese. David guessed American. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here to greet you when you arrived but I had so many preparations to make. Are your rooms comfortable?" "Fine," David said hesitantly, scrutinising the woman, still trying to take in that his best friend was engaged to be married and had not confided in him. Simon had said nothing of this, neither on the phone or earlier in his room, and David had given him ample opportunity to do so. He felt slightly hurt by Simon's reticence. "The house is beautiful," Heather said, feeling even more conspicuous and plain. Anna Otani's dress was a fabulous creation of cerise silk, low cut, emphasising the woman's long swan's neck, and decorated with dragon motifs. The silk clung to her body like a second skin, outlining her svelte figure, and making a feature of her small but perfectly proportioned breasts. She was stunning. Large almond shaped eyes, dusky brown, framed by long black lashes, flawless ivory skin, and black hair that hung loose to her waist and shone like the silk of her dress. "It is a beautiful, yes, though Simon likes to make light of it. I keep reminding him how lucky he is to own a place that contains so many treasures. Let me get you a drink and I'll introduce you to the others." She led the way across the room but a tall, middle-aged Japanese man intercepted her, wrapping his arm about her waist and whispering in her ear. He was dressed impeccably in an Armani suit, his thick black hair swept back from a finely chiselled face. Anna turned to them with a smile. "You must excuse my father, but he insists on being introduced to you. David Aylwin and Heather Grant, my father, Shinjiro Otani." Otani smiled graciously and gave a slight bow. "This gives me great pleasure," he said in clipped, accented English. "To meet such good friends of Simon is indeed an honour. David, he has spoken of you often, but I'm afraid I am not so well acquainted with your lovely companion." "Simon and I met for the first time today," Heather said. "We haven't been together very long," David said artlessly. "But I sense you will be together for a very long time to come," Otani said. "Ah, I see your drinks are coming." He turned to move back to his group when Akira, who had been circling the room offering canapés to the guests, stepped in front of him, narrowly avoiding a collision. The urbane expression on Shinjiro Otani's face slipped, to be replaced by a look of anger. He gripped Akira by the shoulder and shook the old man roughly, spitting out a furious reprimand in Japanese. Akira looked shaken, but bowed deeply and shuffled away. "How would you like him as a father-in-law?" Heather said under her breath. "Not very much," David answered quietly. The incident seemed to pass unnoticed by the others in the room and conversation was carrying on normally. The group by the piano was getting restless and calling for Anna to return to the piano. David took his drink from Anna. "We're keeping you from your friends," he said. Anna smiled. "I have a small talent," she said. "It seems to amuse them. Do you mind?" "Not at all," Heather said. "You play very well." "Thank you," Anna said. "Please feel free to help yourselves to more drinks." She returned to the piano to be greeted by a small cheer from her audience, sat down on the stool and began a quiet classical piece that David did not recognise. "Can we go now?" Heather said to him urgently. "Go? Are you being serious?" "No, just feeling inadequate. I bet she juggles as well." David wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. "She's probably a lousy cook." "Oh God, I do hope so." They made their way across to the piano and joined the main group. The hesitancy Anna Otani had shown when tackling the Gershwin number was no longer evident. The music moved along smoothly and eloquently, and Anna played, eyes closed, her body swaying gently, in sympathy with the lilting melody. Heather watched the young woman's fingers move effortlessly over the keys, jealousy giving way to admiration as the music swelled up inside her. She felt her mind drifting. There was something slightly oriental about the piece, an element in the chord structure that filled her thoughts with vivid images of the Far East. She closed her eyes and let the music carry her away on a tonal journey across oceans. David finished his drink and went to replenish his glass. In the corner of the room a young couple occupied space on a chaise longue. The man he did not recognise at all, but the woman looked vaguely familiar. David could not place her. She was a pale, fragile creature with deep-set, haunted eyes and she was wearing a white cotton shift that seemed perfectly in keeping with her plain, bird-like features. It was only when she lifted her drink to her lips that he noticed her hands. They were gnarled and twisted into bony fists and she had to use both of them to hold the glass. She lowered the glass and rested her hands in her lap, where they twitched like birds with broken wings as the young woman watched Anna play with rapt attention. David looked away, embarrassed, and turned back towards the piano, watching Heather standing there like someone in a dream. The piano was rising in volume as the piece built to a crescendo, and Heather was lost in a world of temples and geishas; a mythical, ancient country that bore little resemblance to the thrusting cities of modern-day Japan. In her mind she was standing in a Japanese garden, at the doorway of a temple, and imagined she could hear the chanting of monks mingling with the vibrant melody of the piano music. The chanting was drawing her into the cool interior. Candles flickered, and her footsteps echoed on the cold marble floor. A beaded curtain hung down in front of her, the beads painted with the same dragon motif that decorated Anna Otani's dress. Incense filled her nostrils, a heavy, pungent scent, heady and intoxicating. She moved forward, parting the curtain and finding herself standing at the top of a long stone staircase. Blackness below her, and water, an inky pool that reflected the light from the candles that were set in the wall. Her feet moved and she felt herself descending, down towards the pool. At the bottom of the steps she stopped, music and incense clouding her thoughts. Something slipped through the oily water, casting small ripples in its wake, something that circled once, then came on towards her. The music reached its coda and two black, sinewy arms broke the surface of the pool. Smooth, cool hands caressed her ankles, and then gripped, tugging at her urgently, wanting her to enter the pool. She started to let herself fall, giving in to the insistent demand. "Heather? Heather?" She opened her eyes. David was standing at her side, a drink in his hand. "Do you want another drink?" She heard the words but did not understand them. David's face drifted in and out of focus. She blinked twice and suddenly she was back in the morning room. Anna Otani was rising from the piano to a small round of applause from the guests. "Sorry," Heather said. "I was dreaming. Yes, another drink would be fine." David shook his head and went to pour her another gin and tonic. "Something pleasant, I hope." Anna had come from behind the piano. "Sorry?" "I heard you say to David that you were dreaming. I hope the music gave you pleasant dreams." "It was wonderful," Heather said. Anna took her by the arm and steered her through the other guests until she found a quiet spot in the room. Anna let go of her arm and turned to her. "Tell me, Heather, honestly, was my playing any good? The others have all heard me play before, and I suspect they clap more out of sympathy than appreciation. As a newcomer I'd welcome your opinion." "That was one of the most moving pieces of music I have ever heard," Heather said honestly. "I felt transported. I've never been to Japan in my life, but that piece of music, and the way you played it, took me there. Who wrote it?" Anna smiled and lowered her eyes. "I did." "Do you juggle?" "Pardon?" Heather returned the smile. "It doesn't matter. Where's Simon? I haven't seen him since we came down." "That's a very good question. I'd better go and find him. He's neglecting his guests badly. It's very rude of him." Anna swept from the room. Heather watched her go with disappointment. She was enjoying the conversation and she was flattered that Anna had placed such importance on her own opinion. David poured gin into Heather's glass and added tonic and ice. He watched Heather and Anna deep in conversation. They seemed to be hitting it off well, which pleased him, but he had reservations. He tried to examine his feelings but they were elusive, slipping away from cogent thought. He tried, and failed, to pin down what exactly it was that was bothering him about Anna Otani, but there was something. "You're young Aylwin, aren't you?" He turned to see a large, elderly man at his shoulder. Ruddy faced with an atrociously bad toupee crowning his head. "Yes," he said. "David Aylwin. I'm sorry, have we met before?" "Not to my knowledge, but then after two or three of these," he held up a half-full tumbler of whisky, "I could meet the queen and not remember a bloody thing about it the next day. Alcohol does that to me, turns my brain to porridge. Arthur Graham, Simon's solicitor." He held out a clammy hand and David shook it. "So how do you know me?" "The family photo album. `Simon and David sailing on the Solent', `Simon and David walking in the Brecon Beacons', `Simon and David at their graduation'. Jane was very proud of her boys. That's what she called you and Simon, `her boys'. I was her and Freddy's solicitor too, and quite often I'd come here on some business or another and out would come the family snap-shots. I feel I watched you grow up first hand." "Jane was a fine woman," David said, keen to talk about his surrogate mother. "You knew her well?" "Knew them both for years. Freddy and I were like brothers. Played golf together, had the same handicap. And Jane was a jewel, a treasure, so tolerant...and being married to Freddy she had a lot to tolerate. Bloody sad loss, them both going like that. Mind you, I always blamed that new chauffeur of theirs. Drunk you know. Why they got rid of old Rider and replaced him with that Japanese bod was beyond me. Surly little devil. Never spoke to me once in the three months he was with them. Probate was a nightmare, of course. Freddy had his fingers in so many pies. Took a lot of hours pulling all the strands together." "I was never actually sure what he did." Graham took a gulp of his whisky and pulled a blue handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his perspiring brow. "A bit of this, a bit of that." He tapped the side of his nose with an index finger and winked broadly. "Nothing illegal you understand, but Freddy was always very shrewd, a bloody sharp businessman. I envied him, truth be told." "He was quite a character, but Jane..." "Oh he was. I see a lot of him in Simon, but I've always felt that Simon lacked Freddy's killer instinct when it came to business. You see Freddy would have known how to handle that bloody pearl farm fiasco. He would have banged a few heads together and got things sorted. He certainly wouldn't have gone off cap in hand to that shark Otani." David looked at him quizzically. "Sorry?" Arthur Graham frowned. "Oh bugger, thought you knew about that, thought he would have told you, being his best friend. Look, forget I said anything. That's another bloody curse of alcohol, loosens my tongue too much." Graham excused himself and went back to his wife, a diminutive woman with hatchet features and a dowager's hump. "Is something wrong?" Heather asked him as he returned with her drink. "You look angry about something. Who was that man you were talking to?" "Simon's solicitor, although at some time over this weekend I'll be advising him to find a new one. The man's a lush and has a big mouth." "What did he say?" "Nothing important." David swallowed the rest of his whisky and shook his head. "Two years can be a very long time between friends," he said morosely. "You think you know someone..." He was starting to feel that in the time Simon had been in Japan, their friendship had disintegrated. It was still evident on the surface. The smiles, the gestures, the bonhomie, and, to any casual observer, the relationship looked as strong as it always was. But David recognised the shift that had taken place between himself and Simon. His friend had once abhorred secrets and had always insisted on David's total candour and honesty. And yet now, within the space of an hour, two elements of Simon's life had been revealed that David knew nothing about. Moreover, it appeared that Simon had deliberately kept his business troubles and his engagement to Anna from him. David felt a growing sense of unease; as if their friendship was nothing more than a handful of sand that was gradually slipping out through his clenched fist. "Anna is lovely, isn't she?" Heather said. "I haven't really spoken to her," David said non-committally. He did not want to share his thoughts about Simon with Heather. He felt he did not know her well enough to divulge such intimate feelings, also he did not feel she would understand his misgivings. He was finding it hard enough to understand them himself. From the hall came the sound of a bell chiming. Guests moved towards the door. Heather threaded her arm through David's. "I'm starving," she said. "I'm really looking forward to this." David said nothing but led her through to the dining room. His appetite had deserted him. His stomach felt queasy and the palms of his hands were sticky with sweat. He was starting to have a very bad feeling about this weekend.
In the dining room Simon listened to the sound of conversation and laughter coming from the next room. He circled the table, adjusting knives and forks, nudging cruet into symmetrical patterns and checking wineglasses for smears. His irritation flared as he noticed a knife with a water spot staining its blade, and he used a napkin to remove it, setting the piece of cutlery back on the table exactly parallel to its partner. The evening was mild and he went across to the french-doors and opened them a fraction, staring out at the deeply shadowed garden, to the orchard where earlier something had moved furtively through the trees. He checked his watch. Five minutes until this room would be filled with the social niceties of a perfectly planned dinner party. He felt sick and wondered if he would be able to eat. The smells from the kitchen were mouth-watering but even these failed to tempt him. He had a great regard for David Aylwin, loved him like a brother, very much aware that his own parents had treated David like another son, but admiring and respecting him in his own right as well. And Heather seemed charming, certainly the beauty of her face was echoed in her personality. She and David seemed well suited; which only served to heighten the bitterness Simon Desborough felt about his own circumstances. He longed to find a woman who loved him without reservation, to have an unencumbered relationship with someone whose hopes and aspirations mirrored his own. He thought about Anna Otani and a wave of despair swept through him. He spun round as he heard a noise behind him, and found himself staring into Anna's beautiful face. "Your friends are missing you," she said. He shrugged and turned back to the table. Anna continued. "I don't think David likes me very much, but Heather is very sweet, innocent, very susceptible." She watched his back stiffen. "I don't suppose you've reconsidered?" he said. She laughed. Then the laughter stopped abruptly. When she spoke again the tone was cold. "Even now, you haven't grasped it, have you? My family take the bargains we make very seriously." She reached for his shoulder and turned him around to face her. "You would do well to remember that." Akira entered the room hesitantly. Anna swept past him without a glance. The old man stood before Simon, his features immobile, the eyes dead, stagnant pools of nothingness. The eyes flicked towards the dining table. Simon understood the meaning of the look. "Very well, Akira. Ring the bell and call them in to dinner. Let's get this bloody charade under way." He watched the old man shuffle from the room and gave the table a final check, feeling a desolate sadness well up inside him as he realised that all his hopes for a life partner, for a lover, for a wife were nothing but pipe-dreams. A chance meeting in a Kyoto bar had robbed him of a future that would be anything other than total misery. He heard the chime of the dinner bell, followed by the sounds of doors opening and the murmurs of continued conversations. He adjusted his tie, tried to shake off the all pervading gloom, and prepared to welcome his guests to dinner.
Anna Otani sat at one end of the dining table, flanked by her father and Heather. Simon sat at the opposite end between Arthur Graham and a woman who had been introduced briefly to David as Daphne Rogers, a local JP. David had been isolated in the centre of the table, opposite the pale young woman with the crippled hands, whose name he still did not know, whilst her husband sat to David's left, concentrating stiffly on his meal and making no attempt at conversation. "So, Heather," Anna said between mouthfuls of the main course. "Simon tells me that you're an artist." Heather laughed uncomfortably. "Is that what David told him?" She paused and took a sip of her wine; her mouth had gone dry and she felt unaccountably nervous. She had always hated talking about herself, and in the presence of the Otani's, it would be even more of a trial. Just what had David told them? That she had flunked out of art college after only one year, that her paintings had been described by one of the tutors as lifeless daubs, without a whit of passion or skill? Is that what he had told them? She doubted it. "David exaggerates wildly about most things." Simon's words echoed in her mind. Oh God! "Well, I did go to art college, but if I relied on my art to support myself I think I'd end up starving in a garret." "Hardship builds character," Shinjiro Otani said. "Many great painters have endured years of suffering for their art." "I'm afraid I'm not the enduring kind," Heather said honestly. "I enjoy my creature comforts too much. At the moment I'm working in an advertising agency; the work is fairly bland but the salary pays the bills. I still paint, but I would never describe myself as an artist. What you do, Anna, that's art. I'd love to have that kind of power; to be able to evoke such deep emotions in people." Anna stopped eating and pushed her plate away from her. "You do yourself an injustice, Heather. I suspect you are a very fine artist. As for power, I think that we all have that to a lesser or greater degree. Had you not the talent, you would never have been accepted at art college." "Agreed," her father said. "Because you chose to put material security before your art does not mean you deny the artist in your soul. You are what you are, and that can never change." "What about you, Anna?" Heather said, eager to divert the conversation away from herself. The neglect of her art had been the subject of too many long hours of guilt-ridden introspection. "I work for my father," Anna replied. "Anna is my right hand," Otani said. "She trained at the Harvard Business School, graduated with honours. It made her family very proud." "So you lived in America?" she said to Anna. "I thought your accent might be..." "My wife was American," Otani interrupted. "I was working as a consultant to an oil company when I met Anna's mother. We fell in love, and when my contract finished and it was time to go back to Japan, I could not bear to be parted from her. I stayed in America, we married, and Anna was born a year later. Only when my wife died did we choose to return to Japan. At such a testing time there is great comfort in the traditions and familiarity of one's homeland. "In the United States I was an outsider; there was no history I could call my own. Japan beckoned and, when we returned there, it welcomed me home like the prodigal son." "And you, Anna," Heather said. "Surely you were born and raised as an American? Weren't you afraid you might miss your friends?" Anna dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "My family are my friends, and I always considered myself to be Japanese, never American." "Ours is a very powerful culture, Heather," Otani said. "It exerts a very strong pull over those that leave its shores, always calling them back, always calling." David was slowly getting drunk. He was following the conversation and becoming more and more irritated by Otani's pomposity. "And yet here you are in England," he interjected, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Isn't the old mother country calling you back yet?" Heather glared at him furiously. Otani handled the interruption smoothly. "I am here for my daughter, and to conduct a little business in London. My stay will last only a few days. It is just a happy coincidence that Simon should decide to hold this dinner party at a time when I am in your country. Otherwise I should have been denied the pleasure of meeting you and your charming and beautiful companion." He turned to the others, shifting in his seat and presenting David with his back, effectively dismissing him from the conversation. David fumed at the slight. A shark, Arthur Graham had said, and David could see the analogy perfectly. Otani's eyes were flat, lifeless and black as onyx. The hair was oiled and slicked back and when he smiled he bared his teeth, a grimace not a smile. A shark indeed. Heather was still staring hotly at him. He shrugged nonchalantly and poured himself another glass of wine. Eventually Anna spoke to her again and Heather tore her eyes away from David and turned with a smile to her hostess. The meal ended traditionally with port and cognac. Two of the men lit cigars. Anna Otani rose from the table and said to the other women, "Shall we leave the men to their port?" There was ready agreement from the other women, including Heather who folded her napkin and got to her feet, her eyes avoiding David's. The pale young woman said nothing, but searched her partner's face for permission to leave the table. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head and she rose to join the others. On their way through to the morning room Anna linked her arm through Heather's. "Do you ride?" she asked. "Ride?" "Simon has a wonderful stable here. I thought perhaps you and I could ride together tomorrow. I could show you the estate." Heather hesitated. "I'm not very good on a horse, and I don't have any riding clothes." "That's not a problem. I can lend you everything you need, and I don't envisage any two-mile gallops, just a gentle hack. I thought it might be a more pleasant way of getting around the estate." Heather thought about it for a moment. She had been appalled by David's rudeness to Anna's father. In all the time she had known him she had never witnessed that side of his personality. Viperish and nasty. It was obvious he was in some way jealous of the Otani's and their relationship with Simon, but there could be no excuse for making that jealousy so apparent. His behaviour at the dinner table was threatening to spoil the entire weekend. Taking herself off with Anna tomorrow would signal her displeasure with him more eloquently than any words. "I'd love to come," she said to Anna. "Wonderful. Shall we say ten o'clock?" In the dining room the men had changed places. Otani and Simon were locked in conversation whilst Arthur Graham was regaling the others with an interminable anecdote. Otani glanced along at Graham and said to Simon, under his breath, "I don't know why you tolerate him. I could provide you with a lawyer fifty times as sharp." "Arthur was a very good friend of my father, and has served me well over the years." "Loyalty is an honourable virtue, though sometimes not a practical one. I shall get my man to contact you." Simon said nothing. Otani controlled so much of his life now, what did it matter if he wanted to get finger-holds into the rest of it? Simon was weary, too weary to fight any more. He looked across at David who was staring off into space, his glass of port sitting in front of him untouched. How he wished now he had confided in his friend at the outset. Once time passes and events pile upon events it becomes increasingly difficult to broach a subject that should have been out in the open in the first place. Circumstance standing in the way of candour. And now it was all too late. Too late for David and Heather, too late for him. May God forgive him because he would never be able to forgive himself. He watched as David got to his feet and swayed towards the french doors. "Going to clear my head," he said to no one in particular, and lurched out into the night. Simon made as if to follow him but Otani's hand clamped like a vice on his arm. "Only a fool drinks if he can't hold his liquor. Let him walk it off. I suspect he has a lot of serious thinking to do." Simon pulled his arm away. "David is my oldest friend," he said. "Then you must go to him...but don't expect him to thank you for it. I sense that David is a proud young man, and part of that pride was based on the relationship he shared with you. That can never be the same now and he recognises it. It's time you did too." Simon swore softly and slumped back into his seat. Otani smiled and Simon wanted to smash a fist into that smooth assured face, but even that pleasure was beyond him. The cool night air caressed David's face and made him shiver. He walked, keeping close to the house, stumbling occasionally on the gravel path. The wine he had drunk was making his head spin, and made rational thought difficult. All he could focus on was the look of anger in Heather's eyes, and the significance of that look. He felt a sense of utter betrayal. First Simon and now Heather. The two people he felt closest to had turned on him. Simon by hiding so much from him, Heather by siding with total strangers against him. He wished now he could turn back time, to the moment he received the telephone call from Simon. He had been so thrilled to hear from his old friend that he had not even stopped to wonder if things would be different between them. He had assumed they would just pick up where they had left off and the friendship would continue unchanged. Perhaps it was his own naivety that was to blame. People do change, they move on, he probably had himself. "Accept it," he muttered to himself. "Accept it and let it go." He reached the annexe at the side of the house. There was a doorway with three stone steps leading up to it. He sat on the top step and rubbed his face with his hands, balling his knuckles and pressing them into his eye sockets, trying to ease the headache that had started to throb behind them. A noise behind him made him look round. The door to the annexe had opened and Akira was standing there, silhouetted by the light behind him. He stared at David dispassionately, but his lean body was tense, like a coiled spring. David pushed himself to his feet. "Don't mind me," he said. "Just getting some air." Akira stepped back inside and opened the door wide. He beckoned David inside. David hung back for a moment, then followed the old man into the annexe. A dingy corridor led into a room lit with candles and decorated with Japanese silk pictures and various ornaments, all with an eastern flavour. A fireplace was hidden behind a screen decorated with a representation of rural Japan. In the corner stood a suit of armour that probably once belonged to a samurai warrior. Above it, hanging on the wall by a hook, a long ceremonial sword, its hilt encrusted with small jade stones, its blade ensheathed in tooled leather. In the centre of the room was a table covered with a burgundy cloth. Akira had placed a pad of paper on the table and was standing over it, a pen poised in his hand. He looked up at David and waited until he had the younger man's attention. Then he began to draw in broad, black strokes. From where he stood David could not see what was being drawn. He moved round to stand behind Akira, watching over the old man's shoulder as he worked. He was drawing butterflies, or what looked like butterflies. In the centre of the page was a rectangular object and the butterflies seemed to be circling it. Akira stopped drawing and looked back at David. The face was expressionless. He gestured to the paper. "I'm sorry," David said. "I can't make out what it is you're trying to draw." A momentary frown flickered across the old man's face and he rested the pen on the paper once more and began to make some bold, swirling strokes. It looked like flames. No, a single flame, issuing from the top of the rectangle. "A candle," David said. "And these things," he gestured to the winged creatures, "They're not butterflies, they're moths." The old man smiled and continued. In the centre of the candle a few rapid strokes of the pen outlined another creature. "A dragon," David said. "Moths to a flame, and the flame is a dragon. I'm sorry I don't understand." The old man put the pen down next to the picture. He pointed to the moths and then to David and made fluttering motions with his hands. And then he started to laugh. A high keening laugh that sounded like a frightened animal. David looked at him curiously, curiosity turning quickly to revulsion as he realised that Akira did not possess a tongue. A blackened stump of flesh vibrated at the back of the old man's mouth as he laughed, making the sound of his laughter shrill and inhuman. From somewhere in the house a bell rang twice and the laughter stopped as if turned off by a switch. Akira took David by the arm and propelled him towards the door. David pulled back and grabbed the picture from the table. "May I keep this?" The old man looked doubtful for a moment, then nodded his head and urged David to leave. As the door closed behind him he looked once more at the picture, then folded it in quarters and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He felt remarkably sober as he walked back to the main part of the house. The dining room was deserted as he came in through the french doors. From the hallway came the sounds of people taking their leave. The dinner party was obviously over. He walked quickly through to the morning room in search of Heather, but this room too was empty apart from the pale young woman who was sitting at the piano, her twisted hands poised over the keys, the fingers making the same twitching movements as before. Tears were running down the young woman's face, and she was rocking backwards and forwards on the piano stool in time to music only she could hear. She looked up at David, her eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling. With a gasp of despair she slammed down the lid of the piano and pounded her withered hands on the gleaming mahogany. "Margaret! That's enough!" Her companion stood in the doorway, a raincoat clutched in his hands. He strode across the room and draped the raincoat over the young woman’s trembling shoulders. He helped her to her feet and led her from the room. He did not even glance at David who stood there, open-mouthed and speechless. "I'm sorry you had to witness that." Anna had followed the young man into the room and was standing by the piano. She lifted the lid and played a fluid scale with one hand. "She used to be quite famous before her illness. Margaret Courtney. I have a recording of her playing Rachmaninov's second with the New York Philharmonic." The name rang a distant bell in David's mind. He had heard of her but he could not place when and where. "I'm afraid she has not been the same since," Anna continued. "It's so tragic, to be robbed of one's talent at such an early age. Her husband has so much to contend with; so many visits to the hospital, and the money he's spent on specialists... Luckily my father is a very understanding and generous employer. Were you looking for Heather?" David frowned. "Yes, I was," he said tersely. He had no desire to have a conversation with Anna. "She's gone up, I'm afraid. She wasn't feeling too well. A headache, I think." She moved to the drinks table and poured herself a long measure of gin. "Can I get you one?" "I think I'd better go up too." Anna pouted. "Oh, surely you have time for a night-cap." She poured another glass and brought it across to him. "Here, I hate drinking alone." "No, I'm sorry. I'm feeling very tired. It's been a long day." Anna stood, holding the glass out to him, but David walked past her without even a nod of good night. At the door he stopped and glanced back at her. The light from the crystal chandelier in the centre of the room was catching the silk strands of the dragon motif on her dress, giving the creature the illusion of movement. Slowly Anna turned to face him, a slight smile touching her lips. "Good night, David," she said. "I'd like to think that one day we can be friends." "Good night," he said stiffly and walked from the room. He reached the upstairs passageway and walked quietly along, stopping outside Heather's room and pressing his ear to the door. There were no sounds of movement from within. He felt the need to speak to her, to heal the rift between them before it widened into an unbreachable chasm. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle, twisted it and pushed the door. The door did not open. Heather had locked it. He swore under his breath and continued along the passageway to his own room.
The cotton sheets felt smooth and cold against his skin. He lay in bed, looking about the room, its features softened by the pale glow from the bedside lamp. He remembered all the times before he had slept here. The time Jane Desborough had come into the room after everyone else had gone to bed. How she had sat and talked to him, the conversation lasting long into the night. He could no longer remember the crisis in his personal life that had prompted her concern, but he remembered the warmth he felt towards her, that she had taken the time and trouble to come in and counsel him. Vivid in his memory was the tenderness of her smile, and the softness of her lips as she had kissed his cheek good night. Also vivid was the aching sense of loss he had felt when the door had closed behind her and her footsteps had receded along the passageway. He felt the same sense of loss now. Only this time he was mourning the loss of his friend. With a sigh of defeat he switched off the lamp and closed his eyes. He had no idea how long he had been asleep when he heard the door open, and felt the mattress dip as a smooth warm body slid into the bed beside him. Soft fingertips traced the contours of his back, travelling down to caress his buttocks. Gradually he was becoming aroused but was frightened to move in case he ruined the mood of the seduction. The hand slid round to his chest, the fingers entwining themselves in his chest hair, flitting lightly across his nipple. He could smell her now, a dusky scent, unfamiliar yet deeply arousing. Not perfume, but a natural smell of musk. He opened his eyes but the darkness in the room was absolute. Soft lips pressed against his neck and he heard her whisper his name in a breathy, sensuous voice. His senses were being bombarded by an intense sexuality unlike anything he had experienced before. Arms wrapped themselves around his torso and legs entwined in his, a foot stroking his calf, sharp toenails scoring gently down his skin. He breathed her name, "Heather," and twisted round to kiss the waiting lips. A kiss so passionate that it left him gasping for air. But the lips were insistent, the tongue probing his mouth, the teeth nibbling the tender flesh of his bottom lip. She rolled on top of him, straddling him with her thighs. He could see her outline in the darkness, a black shape more solid than its surroundings, writhing in an animalistic ecstasy. Then she leaned forwards to kiss him once more. As the long strands of silky hair brushed across his face he cried out, bucking and twisting his body to throw the woman off. Above him came a feral snarl and a hand lashed at his face, long fingernails scratching his cheek. David thrust his feet into the mattress and arched his body, feeling the weight leave him and fall to one side. With a sob of relief he reached for the bedside lamp. His hand found the lamp-switch and flicked it on, yanking his hand back with revulsion as a dozen fat-bodied moths dropped from their perch inside the lamp-shade and started to circle the light. Beside him the bed was empty. He was alone in the room.
Heather awoke suddenly from a dream. In the dream she was back in the Japanese garden. This time though she was not alone. David was standing at the temple door, banging on the carved wood with his fists. There was absolute silence. David was shouting; she could tell that by the contorted expression on his face and the way his mouth was working, but she could hear no sound. The silence swamped the garden, a silence so profound it was almost a physical presence. She was standing under a copper-leaved acer, watching David but unable to move towards him; and he seemed unaware of her. He pounded the door, tears streaking his face as, slowly, his legs crumpled beneath him and he sank to his knees. An arm encircled her shoulders and she turned to see Anna standing beside her, smiling; a smoky, seductive smile that Heather was not prepared to interpret or understand. Anna's fingers caressed her neck, snaking up to entwine themselves in her cropped blond hair. Heather felt her scalp tingle, the sensation spreading through her body. She looked back at the doorway but David had gone. The door was open and she could smell the incense wafting out on a warm breeze, adding its perfume to the alluring scents of the flowers in the garden. Anna whispered in her ear, breaking the silence. "Come, Heather. You can't help him now." And then David's voice, crying out in pain and terror. A sound so harrowing it brought her awake with a start. Her mouth was dry and the headache that had cut short her evening and prompted her to go to bed, was still nagging away behind her eyes. She reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and had it inches from her lips when she saw the hawk moth floating on the surface. It flapped its wings feebly and was close to drowning. "You poor thing," Heather said, and dipped her finger into the water. The moth, sensing the life-line it was being offered, crawled swiftly up Heather's finger and onto her hand, where it settled for a while to dry off. Keeping her hand still, Heather slipped out of bed and padded across to the window, by which time the moth had recovered sufficiently to crawl the length of her arm and onto her chest, where it settled on her breast like a living brooch. Heather opened the window, cupped her hand over the moth and set it down on the windowsill, nudging it gently with her finger, encouraging it to fly. The moth crawled around in a circle, seemingly unwilling to leave, then, with a buzz of its exquisitely patterned wings, it took off into the night. Heather watched it until it was out of sight and was about to close the window when she stopped. Something was moving on the grass. Something large, black and sleek, a shadow darker than the other shadows in the garden. It was moving away from the house towards the orchard, seeming to slither over the grass in a motion unlike any animal she had ever seen before. The body was long and low, close to the ground, and she got the impression it was covered in dense black fur. It was travelling fast, twisting itself from side to side in a sinuous, fluid movement. As if aware it was being watched the creature stopped, turning its pointed head towards the house, sniffing the air, scenting her. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and for an instant she caught a glimpse of two glittering eyes which seemed to bore into her own, before the thing writhed and shuddered and moved swiftly on, becoming lost amongst the shadows of the orchard. She watched for a while, in case the creature re-appeared, but eventually the chill night air against her naked flesh drove her back to the warmth of the room and she closed the window. The long-case clock in the downstairs hall chimed four. Heather climbed back into bed. The dream was still playing on her mind. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Anna's beautiful face hovering inches in front of her own. There was something incredibly magnetic about the woman and Heather felt drawn to her in a way she had never experienced before. Except perhaps during her first year at senior school when she had developed a crush on her history teacher, Miss White. The crush had lasted a full term and was intense. She had even copied the teacher's hairstyle, a severe bob, sleek and smooth, cut to her jaw-line. The summer holidays had ended the crush. Six weeks away from school and the sudden discovery of boys, or rather one particular boy who had swept her off her feet during a fortnight spent in Brittany. Jean Paul had laid the crush to rest. Until today. Now she found herself attracted to Anna Otani in a way that echoed the turmoil of emotions she had first experienced when she was just eleven years old.
David twisted and turned in the bed, the memory of the seduction making sleep impossible. It was Anna, of that he was in no doubt. It could only have been her. But how did she manage to get out of the room in the few seconds between him throwing her off and then switching on the light? The moths were a distraction, but even so... Guilt was nagging away at him as well. How could he possibly tell Simon of this? Anna was the woman he had chosen for his wife, his companion for life. Would he be heartbroken, or angry at David? Would it drive the wedge that existed between them even deeper, shattering the friendship once and for all? The questions tumbled over and over in his thoughts, until finally, unable to find any peace at all, he drew back the covers, pulled on his robe and went downstairs. There was a light burning in the kitchen and the back door was open. David crossed to the sink, took a glass from the drainer and filled it with cold water from the tap. He drank it down in one long swallow, walking to the back door and looking out into the garden. "What's the matter, can't you sleep?" Simon appeared from shadows at the side of the house. He was still dressed, a waxed jacket covering his clothes, green rubber boots on his feet. He was smoking a cigarette. David jumped at the sound of the voice, then relaxed when he saw it was only his friend. "No," he said. "Finding it hard to adjust to the quiet of the countryside, I expect. What about you?" The lie came surprisingly easily. "I rarely sleep much these days. Two or three hours tops. I find walking the grounds relaxation enough. Fancy a coffee, or would you prefer something stronger?" "Coffee's fine." Simon came inside and filled the kettle, setting it on the range to boil. "We haven't had much time to chat since you arrived. It's a pity." "I rather got the impression you were avoiding me," David said, sitting down at the long oak refectory table. Simon busied himself spooning coffee and sugar into two mugs. "Avoiding you? Whatever gave you that idea?" "Well, you have, haven't you?" Simon laughed, a short, snorting laugh without humour. "Yes, I suppose I have. I didn't know how you'd react." "React to what? To Anna, to the fact you're getting married and didn't bother to tell me? Or the fact that you got yourself into a financial mess in Japan and had to go to her father to bail you out?" Simon turned with a frown. "It wasn't like that, anyway who told you? Oh yes, Arthur Graham. He told me he'd had a chat with you. What else did he say?" The kettle boiled and he poured water into the mugs, bringing them across to the table and sitting down opposite his friend. "Nothing more, though that's enough really. Why didn't you write to tell me? I could have helped." Simon shook his head. "I doubt that." David opened his mouth to protest but Simon raised a hand to silence him. "You have no idea of the magnitude of the mess my father left when he died. The whole reason for my going to Japan was to try and sort it out." "You told me you were going there to start again, to pick up the pieces of your life. I believed you." "I wasn't lying to you. That's exactly what I was trying to do. I just didn't give you all the facts because I didn't want you to worry, besides, it was my father's mess I was trying to sort out. I couldn't involve you or the other people I cared about in all that. It was something I had to do myself." David sipped the scalding liquid. The coffee was strong, black and sweet, the way Simon always used to make it. "So are you going to tell me about it now?" "What's the point? It's all over now." "The point is I'm interested. I'd like to know what happened to keep you out of the country for two years, and why you felt the need to tie |
