Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood

“Well, thank you.”

“I went twice, actually. Had a bit of a crush on you.”

“Did you now.” Marcus had a soft Irish accent that made her melt. His smile widened. “I’m glad you could make it tonight. Are you having fun?”

“Not really, no. I don’t know anyone.”

“Well, it’s a bit of a meet-and-greet for the investors, but these things have to be done. I guess if you’re here it means that Robert Kramer has just employed you.”

“He’s taking a chance. I’m standing in as ASM.”

They chatted easily for a few minutes. “Actually,” Marcus confided, “I’m dying for a cigarette. It’s because I’ve got a drink in one hand. They go together.”

“God, me too, I’m gagging. I think I saw a fire escape on the way in. I was wondering if it’s protected from the rain. I just had my hair done.”

“Come on then,” he said, brushing his fingers against the back of her hand.

That was when she knew she had him.

They found their way to the back of the room, then out into a corridor that led to the rear exit.

Marcus pushed open the fire escape door and stepped out. Rain sprayed through the diamond grating of the black iron staircase above them. It cascaded down the brickwork, rumbled through pipes, bounced from gutters and thrashed into drains, as if the world had sprung a leak and was subsiding into aquatic depths. The building had once been offices, but had been carved into residential apartments. The dead windows of other offices looked down on them, but everyone had gone home hours ago.

They had slunk from the party like thieves, propping open the door with an empty cigarette carton in case it closed and locked them out. Marcus sat on the stairs and inhaled deeply, funnelling blue smoke up into the damp air. “I love it,” he said. “Anyone who tells you they don’t is a liar. All that attention – of course acting is an ego trip.”

He handed the joint back. Gail had found it in her bag. She had got it from a Spanish waiter at an embassy dinner the week before. Her father would kill her if he thought she was smoking dope, which was why she always asked the waiters where she could score.

“But you’ll be playing a murderer every night. How do you get the audience to like you?”

“That’s an interesting question,” said Marcus. “Of course, every night is different. You never know who you’ll get in. I was in California last summer and I saw this teenage girl being interviewed on television. She had burned down her parents’ house one night because they wouldn’t let her watch her favourite TV programme, something like The X-Factor. They had died of smoke inhalation and she’d been arrested on suspicion of murder. And this is the terrible part – I remember thinking she was really sexy, even though she was probably a killer. It was the way she looked straight into the camera, and I could tell she was enjoying the attention. She’d realized she could become a celebrity. And she did when the interview appeared on YouTube. She got offered all kinds of modelling jobs. That’s the thought I hold onstage. Plus, I keep the top three buttons of my shirt open.”

Gail sucked on the joint, held the searing smoke in her lungs and tried not to cough as she exhaled. “I think you’re a little too pretty to make a convincing real-life murderer,” she said finally. “But you’re very good in the role.”

Marcus reached forward and slipped his hand around her waist. “I think you’re too pretty, too.” A moment later, she moved forward between his jeans-clad legs and kissed him, pressing down hard on his open mouth. Unbuttoning his jeans, she climbed the step and lowered her bare thighs onto his as the rain fell with renewed vigour.

Back at the party, Robert Kramer had noticed the water coming in through the window frame and had snapped at a waiter, ordering him to clear up the mess.

“What’s the problem?” asked Judith, joining him. She looked a little drunk.

“You’re supposed to be the hostess.” Kramer eyed his wife with fresh disappointment. “That means keeping an eye on everything. Christ, it’s not a very difficult job. You should be able to manage that.”

“I thought my job was to look beautiful and encourage those disgusting old men to hand over their cheques,” she bit back. “When can we get rid of them?”

“It’s too early yet. Did you check on Noah?” Their eleven-month-old son had almost taken his first tottering step unaided this week, and was asleep in his cot in the upstairs nursery.

Judith took out her pager and showed Robert the screen. “See for yourself. Not a peep.”

“That’s because it’s not switched on – look.” He turned the pager round and showed her the Inactive symbol.

“Damn. It’s not my fault. It keeps turning itself off in my pocket.”

“The window isn’t open, is it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, there’s a draught coming from somewhere. Go and check on him. You should have made Gloria stay this evening. It’s her job to look after him.”

“I couldn’t, Robert, her mother is dying. She has to get all the way down to Kent. She’ll be back by eleven.”

“Hurry up – I’ll see to this mess.”

Judith pushed away through the crowded room as the waiter came running with a bucket and sponges.

Out on the fire escape, Gail Strong pushed Marcus Sigler back against the metal staircase and licked his lips. They were now both naked below the waist, their clothing shoved down to their calves in a hampering tangle. Rain spattered through the trelliswork of the stairs above, dampening their clothes. Marcus bucked and Gail tightened her hold over him, and the staircase rattled, and something fell or slid – like a can of paint being pushed across a floor – and their bodies shook, and they saw nothing, felt nothing except the core of heat that joined them.

Judith closed the lounge door behind her and climbed the stairs, thankful to be away from the party for a moment. With so much forced laughter and so many guests working their private agendas, it was hard to know if anyone really liked her, or whether they simply saw her as the boss’s wife. And to have all the actors here in the flat, seeing how lavishly they lived, surely that wasn’t a good idea.

She paused on the stairs and listened – something fell, an odd sort of sound. She stopped before the nursery door, a queer feeling tilting her stomach. Thunder rolled across the rooftops once more and the lights momentarily flickered. She depressed the handle and pushed, but the door refused to move. It wasn’t locked, so what was wrong?

She tried it again. Nothing. She called to the child, but there was no sound inside the room. Total silence. What to do?

She knew she should use her initiative, but her ability to make her own decisions had been excised when she agreed to marry Robert. So she turned and ran back downstairs.

“It’s not possible,” said Robert flatly. “That door is never locked.” His disbelief felt accusing.

“Then try it for yourself.” She grabbed his hand and led him away from the horde of investors.

They returned to the baby’s room and Robert tried the door. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened, hushing Judith. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled finally, straightening. “You left it unlocked?”

“You know I did, Robert. There’s no way of locking it without removing the key from the other side. I kept telling you to sort the door out.”

“Maybe Noah – ”

“For God’s sake, he’s not even able to get out of the cot!”

“Then I’ll have to break the door open. I don’t know what the guests will think.”

“I can’t believe you’re even thinking about them at a time like this – just do it.”

Robert placed his shoulder against the wood and pushed, but the door barely moved. “All right, stand back.” He raised his foot and kicked as hard as he could against the lock. The wood cracked a little but held. His second kick split the frame, and at his third the door popped open, swinging wide.

The first thing they saw was the window. It had been raised. The white net curtains were apart and billowing, and the rain was soaking the carpet.

“No,” said Judith, softly. She ran to the cot and saw the covers thrown back. “He’s gone. How could he – ” She turned and searched the floor, panic blinding her.