Kingdom of Shadows. Barbara Erskine
extent these people you have created have a life of their own now. And they will take you over if they can.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘I am and I’d blame myself if something happened to you, don’t you see? You have, in a sense, set a mechanism in train which is very hard to switch off, not least because you, on your own admission, enjoy it.’
‘And is that so bad?’
‘It is once you lose control.’
‘But that won’t happen –’
‘It might.’ He was looking at her very seriously. ‘You might find you had no choice but to go on, Clare. I think maybe your Lady Isobel needs you as much as you need her.’
Clare stared at him. Her face had gone white. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Zak! You’re not serious? What I am doing is a child’s game. Pretend, that’s all. They are part of my imagination. It’s the meditation technique which has allowed my imagination to run wild, that’s all. You said that yourself. It’s a game! Just a game!’
‘Then why did you call me? Clare, you were worried enough about what you were doing to want to talk to me about it.’
She glanced at him almost guiltily. ‘I called you because I couldn’t do it any more. I panicked because I thought I would never see her again. Then I could and – well’ – she hesitated. ‘I wanted you to tell me it was all right, not tell me I’m engaged in some sort of occult practice! For God’s sake, Zak!’
‘You panicked because you thought you’d never see her again,’ he repeated, quoting her. ‘Leave it alone, Clare. I mean it.’
She had never seen Zak angry before. It was out of character. His cool, gentle tone had gone and he had sounded almost afraid.
And he had refused to change his mind.
‘Clare, please think about what I’ve said.’ He stood up slowly. ‘Promise me.’
‘I’ll think about it. Of course I will.’
‘Look, I’ve got to go, it’s late.’ Zak picked up his jacket almost with relief. Outside it was nearly dark. ‘But I’ll come back on Monday or Tuesday and we’ll talk again. I want you to promise me you won’t do any more meditation of any kind until we’ve talked again.’
‘Zak –’
‘Promise me, Clare. Please.’
‘All right.’ She sighed.
‘And don’t be alone, Clare. Don’t give yourself the opportunity to be tempted.’
‘I won’t.’
She did try to ring Emma, but there was no reply.
That night the dream came back. Alone in the big double bed Clare turned this way and that, fighting the pillows, her hair damp with perspiration, and when at last she sat up, suddenly and violently awake, there was no dog to comfort her.
She lay still, shaking, too afraid and disorientated for a moment to move at all, then, slowly she dragged herself out of bed and switched on the light. The house was completely silent. She sat for a long time on the side of the bed, trying to calm herself, then at last she lay back on the pillows, worn out. But sleep had not come back.
She took the roses into the kitchen and put them carefully into a porcelain vase, glancing up at the clock as she did so. Zak was coming back that afternoon before he returned to Cambridge, but she still had most of the morning to get through. She had already spent two days fighting the longing to retreat into her dream world. She wanted so much to know what was happening to Isobel. Isobel who had become pregnant so easily and who wanted so desperately to lose her child. Clare shivered. Surely her curiosity was natural? Morbid, perhaps, perverse even, but not sinister. It couldn’t mean that already Isobel was gaining some kind of hold over her. Could it? That Zak was right, that already she preferred the past of her dreams to the present. She shook her head slowly. She had to get out of the house. That at least would distract her until he came.
Harrods was crowded. For a long time she wandered around the ground floor, staring at the displays, browsing at different counters, picking up scarves and handbags and putting them down again; she bought an olive-green suede belt, a pair of gilt earrings and in another department a length of pale blue silk, none of which she really wanted. At about half past eleven she decided she would like a cup of coffee and she walked up the stairs, heading for the coffee shop. As she threaded her way across the fashion floors she could hear in the distance the jerky rhythmic music which accompanied a dress show and unconsciously her steps quickened. Anything to keep her mind occupied for a few more minutes. It was very hot upstairs, and she unbuttoned her jacket as she made her way between the displays of clothes, through the shoppers towards the crowd of spectators.
The music was loud, the beat subliminally painful as she stood on the edge of the crowd. Strobe lights cut the air in a whirling mock disco as models danced and jerked their way, marionette-like, around the floor. Behind them the scene was set with a huge hardboard slab of prison bars; to the left of them another stretch of bars, the real things this time, glinting in the lights. They were hung with chains. The models too wore chains, their clothes brief, erotic, black and khaki, their limbs painted silver and covered with sequins, their faces immobile, their black wigs short and masculine. Clare glanced around her. The women near her had their eyes glued to the production; she could see the beads of perspiration on one woman’s lip. Her mascara had run and her lipstick was caked at the corners. She was swaying to the music, fascinated.
The arcs of colour crossed and recrossed the bars, throwing their shadows across the floor as the elegant, gawky limbs jerked and dangled their way around the dais. The music grew louder and more insistent; the air was stifling with rich perfume and a less discreet hint of sweat. Near Clare a security man was scanning the crowd, a radio clipped to his breast pocket, his face shaded and sliced by the lights. The shadow of the bars fell across him and she could see the whites of his eyes gleaming, watching, staring …
She didn’t realise that she had screamed. Dropping her parcels she turned and began desperately fighting her way back towards the stairs, pushing out of the crowd, her heart thudding with panic, her throat dry, oblivious of the startled faces near her, pushing out of the heavy swing doors on to the cool broad staircase.
The door opened immediately behind her and the security man appeared. He stopped abruptly, seeing her leaning against the wall, her face glazed. ‘Can I help you, madam?’ He was staring at her suspiciously, only with difficulty restraining himself from taking her arm.
Still trying to steady herself Clare shook her head. ‘I’m all right. I’m sorry. It was the lights –’ She could barely speak.
Behind them a second figure appeared in the doorway, carrying Clare’s belongings. It was the woman who had been standing next to her. ‘Are you all right?’ Pushing the man aside she put her arm around Clare’s shoulders. ‘It’s all right, officer, or whatever you are. I’ll take care of her. I could see you going funny, love. All that heat and those lights and the crowds: it’s enough to make anyone feel faint.’
The security man frowned, obviously out of his depth.
‘If you’re sure –’
Desperately Clare nodded and with a thankful shrug the man disappeared. The woman gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘Disappointed. He thought you’d snatched something! And it was me that ended up with your bags! Here.’ She pushed them at Clare. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Do you want me to get you a taxi?’ The cheerful voice pattered on as, slowly, she guided Clare down the broad staircase and out into the Brompton Road. ‘A bit of fresh air and you’ll be fine.’
Clare barely heard her. Her head still whirled: bars; lights; noise, the searching, probing eyes; the eyes, the bars of her nightmares. Clutching her parcels she allowed herself to be pushed into a taxi; she heard herself thank the woman, heard herself reciting her address to the driver, then she flung herself back in the seat and knew that she was crying.