Sextet (58 page)

This, if characteristic, was less than ideal, but it would have to suffice. He rummaged around in the food cupboards, and eventually settled for a packet of muesli—again, less than ideal, but it contained nuts and grains, and they had some powers, of course. Jippy sprinkled the muesli in a lopsided circle, centred the hair and the postcard inside it, and then, after further consideration, placed next to them an orange and an egg. The egg kept rolling around, so eventually he put it in an eggcup and surveyed his handiwork. It was not impressive, and its lack of symmetry offended him. He decided to add a second egg, also in an eggcup, and resisted the impulse to arrange these objects in the vague shape of a face.

He glanced towards the window; the sky was lightening and he knew he had to be quick. The orange kept rolling around in an unstable way, and this made his hands start to shake. ‘Stay
s-s-still
,’ he whispered, as the orange threatened to roll out of the circle. The orange obeyed and Jippy felt a little happier at this.

From the pocket of his neat striped pyjamas, he took out the small bent coin his grandmother had once given him—a rare coin, this—and placed it in the circle, between the orange and the eggs.

Then he knelt down, rested his forehead against the edge of the table and waited. He muttered under his breath. He watched thin sharp winter sun strike the edge of the window-frame and the edge of the sink. As it slowly began to reach the table, and his circle of objects grew bright, Jippy began on his special prayer of benevolence, to those forces his grandmother had taught him dispensed benevolence—although only when they were propitiated, or in the right mood, she said.

Jippy prayed this prayer with absolute concentration. He gave it every ounce of his energy. When he was on line, the sweat began to run down his body, and his feet and hands began to twitch like a dog dreaming. Halfway through the spell, finding he was afraid, he left out one vital phrase and had to go back. He asked the spirits—politely, his grandmother had always emphasized the importance of this—to avoid the certain evil he had glimpsed the previous night; to make the unlikely, likely; to bend, twist, distort and reassemble events, and having done so, to reorganize them so they were sweet to the eye and the heart. Jippy knew this was well within the powers of these spirits; they did that sort of thing a hundred times a day, on a whim, on a flick of the wrist.

In a humble way—humility was also a wise tactic, his grandmother said—Jippy asked these spirits to employ their artistry. He said this several times, emphasizing the point, because the spirits, on occasion, could be tired or bored, and could simply botch the job, then walk away from it. Jippy did not want botching here—he feared it. He wanted perfect joinery; he wanted a seamless finish. The capricious spirits appeared to listen to this.

To listen, however, was not enough. Jippy redoubled his efforts. He lapsed; he went down, down, down into some strange liquid, swirling space, where he swam back and forth, back and forth. In this space, his spell came to an end. All the words were used up. There, Jippy found he was very afraid; it was so hot it was cold; he started shivering and panting—and it was in this state that Markov found him some time later.

He stared at him in panic; Jippy was lying on the kitchen floor, twitching. An epileptic fit, Markov thought. Jippy’s eyes were tight shut and there was foam on his lips. Giving a cry, Markov fell to his knees and put his arms around him. He lifted him up, then found Jippy was too heavy to move. He almost fell over; he started crying Jippy’s name and kissing his face. He tried to remember what you did if someone had a fit—but was this a fit? ‘Darling, darling, darling,’ he said, clasping Jippy’s hands. He tried to find a pulse and could not find one. Jippy seemed not to be breathing. Frantic now, he laid him back down on the floor, and in the wrong way, at the wrong angle, placed his mouth on Jippy’s mouth. He breathed air into him. He started counting, realized he did not know why he was counting, and breathed again. He had begun to cry, and his tears ran down onto Jippy’s white face. ‘Please, please, please, please,’ he said. He breathed a third breath and Jippy’s eyes opened.

‘W-what are you d-doing?’ he said, and sprang to his feet. He made a grab at the table, which Markov was about to knock over, and Markov, feeling foolish, slowly rose to his feet. He looked at the table, at a ring of muesli, a postcard, a human hair, a coin, two eggs and an orange. Jippy was looking at this orange in consternation. The eggs were fine; the hair and the postcard and the coin were fine; the orange, probably thanks to Markov’s ministrations, and kickings out, was inside the circle still—but only just.

‘I thought you were dead,’ Markov said. ‘I was giving you mouth to mouth.’

‘W-well, you n-nearly ruined the whole t-thing,’ Jippy said, somewhat crossly. ‘It’s very d-delicate.’

Markov was hurt. ‘Jippy,’ he said, ‘these goddamn spells of yours do not work. They have never worked and they are never
going
to work. Those spells are a load of
baloney
.’

Jippy, who did not agree with him in this case, gave him a calm look.

‘Th-this is for Lindsay,’ he said, ‘and it
is
going to work.’

‘For Lindsay?’ Markov looked at the assemblage with more interest. ‘Explain,’ he said.

Jippy explained. Markov paled, then nodded, then frowned, then, smiling, raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, well,
well
!’ he said, ‘Stranger than fiction! Who’d have believed it?’

Markov himself did not believe it, but he did not want to hurt Jippy, so he kissed him. ‘Now come and look at the news on TV,’ he added. ‘You were certainly right about the Conrad, darling. Updates every half-hour, and paparazzi positively crawling all over the place…’

The Conrad, Juliet McKechnie discovered, was crawling with paparazzi, and with police. Arriving there at seven in the morning, having failed to get through to Natasha on the telephone, she then experienced considerable difficulty in gaining admission to the building. When she finally did, and found the elevator was back in service, she discovered she was sharing it with Emily Lancaster.

‘You’re up and about early, Emily,’ she remarked, eying the grizzly bear overcoat. ‘First floor, please.’

‘I went out to get the
tabloids
,’ Emily said, with dignity. ‘Unfortunately, they must have gone to press too early. A pity. Frobisher and I were looking forward to reading a great deal of inaccurate scandal.’

‘Did you see any of it, Emily?’

‘My dear, I was in the
thick
of it.’

‘So terrible. I saw the TV news. I couldn’t believe it.’ Juliet gave Emily an azure-eyed glance. ‘Poor Natasha. Who
was
this woman?’

‘Some lunatic.’ They had reached the first floor. Emily held the doors. ‘
Fortunately
,’ she continued, eying Juliet, ‘Natasha Lawrence was shielded from the worst of it by her husband…’

‘Her ex-husband.’

‘He had to lock her in their apartment, you know—she was quite hysterical. Of course, had the woman laid eyes on her, it would have been
fatal
—or so my nephew Colin says. My nephew Colin was the hero, you see…acted without hesitation, ran off in pursuit…so brave!’

Juliet was not interested in Emily’s nephew, or his putative bravery. She stepped out of the elevator.

‘I was overcome,’ Emily continued, somewhat dramatically. ‘Palpitations, my dear! There was all this
uproar
, people screaming and running about. One of my dear friends—now which sister was it? One of them anyway, said, “Emily, my dear, do you feel unwell?”—and, do you know, Juliet, at that precise second, I realized I did
not
feel myself.
Pain
, Juliet—all the stress, of course. It started
gripping
my chest. I thought: This is the end. I am having a heart attack, right here, in my darned hall…’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Juliet, ‘very understandable, at your age. Emily, I must go—’

‘
Fortunately
,’ Emily continued, in an unstoppable flow, ‘a dear friend of my nephew’s was there. Such a good young man! Experienced at first aid, on top of all his other qualities…He climbs, you know, so he has to be, I guess. He took charge immediately! I do so like it when men do that, don’t you, Juliet? Only it turned out, it wasn’t a heart attack after all. Indigestion, I think—the soup we had had was delicious, but rather
rich
. Anyway, by the time I recovered, it was all over bar the shouting…’

Juliet, who had been about to turn away, had a sudden suspicion that there was a subtext to this interminable stream of uninteresting and irrelevant information. She stopped and gave Emily a long cool azure look.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, with emphasis, ‘I
don’t
like it when men take charge. I’ve always found that particular male tendency irritating, to say the least. That applies whether they’re administering first aid, Emily, or locking people in their apartments…’

‘I wouldn’t have
thought
,’ Emily said, ‘that now was the best time to call upon poor Miss Lawrence. She will have had very little sleep…’

Juliet did not like the way this remark was made.

‘And I wouldn’t have thought that was any of your damn business, Emily,’ she replied, and walked off smartly.

Emily smiled as the doors closed. On the warpath, she thought, wondering how Juliet managed to look so chic so early in the morning, an art she herself had never acquired. She liked a woman who gave as good as she got, she thought—and her opinion of Juliet McKechnie rose accordingly.

‘You can’t see her,’ Angelica said to Juliet, in a sullen way, opening the door to Natasha’s apartment. ‘She’s sedated. She’s not seeing anybody.’

‘Then I shall wait until she is ready to see me.’

Juliet, who disliked Angelica intensely, and who knew her dislike was returned, gave her a dismissive glance and walked past her. She went through into the white living-room, and sat down.

‘Angelica, I know perfectly well that Natasha
won’t
be sedated. It’s difficult to persuade her to take aspirin. So don’t waste my time, please.’

‘She’s upset. Distraught.’ Angelica glowered at her. ‘Most people wouldn’t need to be told that.’

‘That’s precisely why I’m here. She will need me.’

‘What she
needs
is sleep, rest, and peace and quiet.’

Juliet gave her a cold glance; she was not a woman who wasted time arguing with those she disliked, and her upbringing had taught her that under no circumstances did one argue with servants.

‘I do
not
understand…’ she said, frowning around the room, ‘how any of this could have happened. It’s appalling. Is Jonathan all right?’

‘He’s better now.’ Angelica’s face softened. ‘He was frightened out of his wits. But the doctor came. He quietened down eventually…’

‘Where’s his father?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Angelica replied, her tone suggesting she did not greatly care either. Her face became set. ‘He had to talk to the police—him and that Englishman who was with him when she fell. He took off for TriBeCa. Knowing him, he’ll be working.’

‘At a time like this?’

‘At any time. He’s like that.’

Juliet considered this information, and her dislike for Tomas Court deepened.

‘If I’d been here,’ Angelica said suddenly, her face reddening, ‘it would never have happened. She wouldn’t have got past
me
. I’d have cut her throat for her. Strangled her with my bare hands. That’s what I’d have done.’

Juliet looked at her heavy bulk, at her small black eyes, and the hate in her face; she could well believe this flat and definite statement.

‘I don’t understand…’ she said, ‘how she managed any of it. Where were the bodyguards? What in hell was that stupid Texan doing?’

‘Natasha gave him the night off.’ Angelica’s expression became evasive. ‘She didn’t want anyone here, not him, not me. I said I’d stay, but no, she wasn’t having it…She didn’t want people around—you know, when
he’s
here. She doesn’t like people to see—it upsets her, the way he talks to her.’

Juliet digested this interesting information also. She might have liked to question Angelica further on that subject; unfortunately her upbringing had taught her not to listen to servants’ gossip, either. She considered the hulking, handsome Texan bodyguard, whose blond, muscled good looks and constant presence had always annoyed her.

‘So where’s that ridiculous Texan now?’ she said. ‘I blame him for this. It was a rank dereliction of his duties. No matter what Natasha said, he should have
insisted
. What’s he doing now? Running around shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted?’

Angelica shot her a small black glance. She smiled. ‘
Maybe
he’s busy shutting doors,’ she said, an odd gloating note entering her voice. ‘I wouldn’t know. He’s around here somewhere. I saw him talking to the police…’ She paused. ‘Mind you, that was hours ago…’

‘Well, I hope Natasha dispenses with his services. She won’t need them now in any case…’

‘You think so?’ Angelica smiled again. ‘You could be right. Natasha might want him to stay around though. She’s been very satisfied with him—the way he performs his duties. Always vigilant. Never lets up…’ She paused, her small black eyes resting on Juliet’s face with detectable malice. ‘You really want me to tell Natasha you’re here? You want me to do it right now?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Juliet gave her a cold look. ‘And when you’ve done that, you can bring me some strong black coffee, please. And while you’re about it, an ashtray.’

The eyes of the two women intersected. Angelica left the room. She was frightened of Juliet McKechnie—but she had additional reasons now for obeying her. She made a brief call on the internal line from the kitchen, replacing the receiver after the telephone in Natasha’s room upstairs had rung only twice. She began to prepare coffee; she watched the percolator begin to bubble. Then, despite explicit instructions to the contrary from Natasha, instructions given her only a few hours previously, she opened the jib-door as she had been longing to do, and in a state of mounting excitement, began to climb the staircase.