Authors: MAYNARD SIMS
The
girl stretched out her hand and the glass in front of her stretched to
accommodate it, then, as if it were made of nothing more substantial than
jelly, the glass parted and the girl stepped through, wrapping her arms around
Meg and pulling her close. ‘Help me,’ the girl whispered into Meg’s mind.
The
coldness of the young girl’s body seeped through Meg’s clothes, through her
skin and drove deep into her bones. Her teeth started chattering and her whole
body shook. The girl seemed to be passing straight through her and out the
other side. Meg screwed her eyes tight, waiting for the freezing sensation to
end. When she opened them she was still standing at the junction of mirrors but
she was alone. There was no sign of the girl but the voices were louder. They
were still hissing her name, but there were other sounds now as well. There was
a deep baritone rumbling and high-pitched screaming – a loud, clamorous chorus
of sound that forced her to cover her ears.
The
air was split by a loud crack as the mirror in front of her fractured. The
glass shook and a thousand spider-webbed cracks appeared, before the mirror
crumpled in on itself and dropped to the floor. The crack came again and
another mirror broke, followed by another and another. Meg realised suddenly
that a path was opening up for her. The sheets of glass and the mirrors were
cracking and breaking in sequence, forming an alleyway through the maze. With
her shoes crunching over broken glass, she followed the alleyway, hoping it
would lead her back to the pier.
And almost crying out with
dismay when the last mirror cracked and fell away to reveal a solid brick wall.
She
stood facing the wall, swaying slightly, her head swimming and her thoughts
spinning. There was a final crack and the wall split, deep red light pouring
out from the crack, filtering through the brick dust clouding the air. Inch by
inch the crack widened and more and more light poured through, bathing her in
redness as a cool breeze played on her face. Soon the dust subsided and she
could see clearly through the gap in the wall.
She
took a few steps forward and found herself standing on the soft silver sand of
the beach. The tide was out, the sea nothing more than a pale strip of
reflected sunlight in the distance. There was a small noise behind her and she
spun round to face a blank, white stuccoed wall, solid, no cracks. Confused,
she turned back. Away in the distance she could see a brightly painted beach
hut, pink and white candy stripe forming a high spot of colour on an otherwise
blank canvas. Slowly, with uncertain steps she started to walk towards it.
Above
her the sky was an unbroken blue. Seagulls floated on high thermals, calling to
her with their raucous voices. She shielded her eyes and looked up at them,
squinting past the sun’s brilliant starburst of light.
‘Meg,
glad you could make it.’
With
a gasp she looked along the beach to the source of the voice.
Narina
Dressler
was leaning
against the candy-striped wall of the hut, immaculately dressed, smoking a
cigarette, a sardonic smile playing on her beautifully painted lips.
Meg
felt her head start to spin. Her mouth was dry and filled with the bitter
after-taste of the coffee. She swayed slightly, groaned, and then pitched
forward in a dead faint.
It was four o’clock before Gareth could
get away from the theatre. Meg’s absence was noticed by Toby Malling, the
director, and despite Gareth’s assurances that Meg would not just disappear
without good reason, the man was clearly angry. As he walked along the
promenade Gareth was worried, though he couldn’t begin to imagine what had
happened to her.
The
proprietor of the pier’s cafeteria was a stout man with a day’s stubble shading
his chin and thick
brylcreemed
hair. ‘Yes, I remember
her,’ he said in answer to Gareth’s question. ‘Pretty little thing.
Sitting over there in the corner having coffee with the mysterious
one in sunglasses.
Sunglasses indoors, I ask you! Is she all right? I
must admit I was tempted to call an ambulance when I saw how groggy she was.
But she said she’d be okay.’
‘Sorry?’
Gareth said.
The
proprietor put down the plate he was drying and flicked the tea towel over his
shoulder. ‘I thought that’s why you were here. I was worried about her.’
‘I’m
looking for her. We’re rehearsing a show at the Palace and she came here to
meet this other woman for lunch and didn’t come back to the theatre. She was
taken ill, you say?’
‘Well,
I wouldn’t say ill, but after the other one left – the one with the glasses –
your one got up to leave and was all over the place.
Staggering…really
unsteady.
Well, I was round the counter like a shot. I thought she was
going to faint. I asked her if she felt all right, and she told me she was
fine. But, I don’t know, there was something about her eyes. They were very
bright. Too bright, and her skin looked sort of waxy. Anyway she left and I
watched her as she walked away. Not steady on her feet at all. Next thing this
car pulls up on the prom and she gets inside, and that’s the last I saw of
her.’
‘What
type of car?’
The
proprietor shook his head. ‘I’m not a driver so I’ve never taken much interest
in them.
Big though, and black.
Not like a hearse,
more sporty
than that.’
Gareth
thanked him and left. He had a sick, hollow feeling in his stomach. If
something
had
happened to Meg he would never forgive himself. He rushed
back to the theatre.
Ted
Taylor was sliding reams of sheet music into a slim leather carrying case, the
ever-present roll-up stuck between his lips. He looked up when Gareth walked
onto the stage. ‘Hello,
boy,
thought you’d gone home
for the night.’
‘No,’
Gareth said. ‘I went looking for Meg.’
Taylor
pursed his lips and blew through them. ‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘She needs her
card marked. Haven’t seen Toby so angry for years and Ronnie Miller was just
adding fuel to the fire. Not on though, is it, walking out halfway through the
first day’s rehearsals?
Doesn’t bode well for the rest of the
run.’
‘That’s
just it. I don’t think she
did
walk out. She was meeting someone for
coffee, but that was all. I’m worried that something might have happened to
her.’
‘Oh,’
Taylor said. ‘What sort of something?’ He finished packing his bag, secured the
catches and started to walk to the side of the stage to fetch his coat.
Gareth
kept pace with him. ‘When I told you earlier about
Finlay
Crawford, you said “he who sups with the devil”…’
‘Should use a long spoon.
Right enough.’
‘But why
Finlay
Crawford?
What do you know about him?’
Taylor
put down his case and slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat. He
shrugged the coat onto his shoulders and set about buttoning it. Then he picked
up his case and opened the flap, pulling out a sheet of plain manuscript paper
and a pencil. Closing the case and turning it over to use as a rest he wrote
something on the paper and handed it to Gareth.
It
was a list of names.
Finlay
Crawford was at the top
of the list followed by at least twenty more; names that Gareth recognised
instantly – the names of some of the most important people in country.
Ted
Taylor watched Gareth’s face as he read, smiling with satisfaction as his young
friend’s eyebrows slowly
raised
. ‘I see you recognise
most of the names then.’
‘Yes,’
Gareth said. ‘But then who wouldn’t?’
‘Agreed,’
said Taylor walking towards the stage door. ‘But put them together and you have
something a little special.’
‘I’m
sorry,’ Gareth said, running to keep up with him. ‘I don’t understand what
you’re getting at.’
Taylor
opened the stage door. ‘I’ve said enough already. And all I’m doing is giving
you the benefit of what I’ve picked up over the years; backstage gossip and
whispers. You’d be amazed what people confide to their accompanist. You’re
staying with June, aren’t you?’
‘June?’
Taylor
sighed. ‘June
Gafney
?
Gafney’s
Guesthouse?’
‘Yes,’
Gareth said. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Well,’
Taylor said, stepping out onto the street. ‘Go back and see June, and ask her
about the Brotherhood.’
‘The Brotherhood?’
‘June
knows about them… first hand, so to speak. Get her to tell you what she knows.’
He looked along the street. ‘There’s my bus. I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you
find the girl, she seemed quite nice.’ He trotted along the street towards the
bus stop. Gareth watched until he was on the bus then stared again at the list
of names on the sheet of manuscript paper. Folding it into quarters he slipped
it into the pocket of his jacket and headed back to their digs.
Meg opened her eyes but she was in
darkness, she could see nothing. Her mouth was dry and her tongue seemed
swollen. She needed a drink. She seemed to be lying on a couch. Her hand traced
its contour. Leather by the feel of it… studded…expensive. She tried to sit up
but a sharp pain lanced through her head and she groaned and lay back down.
There was a small noise and the light was switched on.
‘She’s
awake.’
The
sudden brightness blinded her but she recognised the voice.
Narina
Dressler
.
Meg
squinted through the brightness and saw
Narina
Dressler’s
face inches from her own. Then she looked past
the
Dressler
woman to the person who’d just come into
the room.
‘Give
her another shot,’ Martin Stein said and Meg felt a sharp pain in her arm. The
faces began to swim in front of her.
‘She’s
going under again.’
‘Good.
Keep her sedated until we hear one way or the other. We shouldn’t have to wait
long for his answer.’
Their
voices receded, became indistinct then fell silent. Meg closed her eyes and
slept once more.
Gareth let himself into the guesthouse,
went straight across to Mrs
Gafney’s
door and knocked
sharply.
‘It’s
open.’
Gareth
pushed the door and it swung inwards. ‘Mrs
Gafney
,
has Meg been back here?’ he said as he walked into the cluttered room.
June
Gafney
was sitting in an armchair, the scrapbook
propped open on her lap. She looked up at Gareth with tear-streaked eyes. ‘It’s
happening again,’ she said.
‘What
is?’
The
landlady picked up the scrapbook and held it out to him. Gareth took it and
turned it around in his hands. The book was open at a newspaper cutting. The
headline read -
MARIE ELISE – A TRAGIC ACCIDENT!
‘Who was Marie Elise?’ Gareth said,
although the name was ringing bells somewhere at the back of his mind.
Mrs
Gafney
smiled,
a faraway
look in her eyes.
‘My dear Mary, my daughter.’
‘I’d
no idea…’
She
looked at him sharply. ‘It wasn’t common knowledge. I never married the father,
and things like that were brushed under the carpet in those days.’
Gareth
pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her, waiting for her to continue.
June
Gafney
leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and
shaking her head slightly. ‘I was young, just starting out as an actress, and
he seemed… he seemed so unobtainable. He was already a star, already a draw at
the box office, and me? Well, I was never going to set any theatres on fire. So
when he started taking an interest in me, well, I was just swept away with it.’
Gareth
sat in silence, leafing through the pages of the scrapbook. He stopped at a
page. All the page contained was a photograph.
A publicity
still. The photograph showed a young woman with a pale porcelain face, with
long fair hair parted in the centre. The face was beautiful but there something
in her eyes; an aloofness – a look of haughty superiority. The face was also
vaguely familiar.