“You can say that again,” murmured Mona.
The embarrassed amusement turned to forced applause. Kramer air-patted his congregation back into obedient attention. “As you know, my plan is to establish a permanent company at this theatre, starring in at least three repertory productions throughout the next winter season, four if we can manage it. And I am pleased to announce that we will begin casting for the second of these productions within the next few weeks. I’d like to thank our wonderful leads, Delia Fortess and Marcus Sigler; my producer, Gregory Baine; our director, Russell Haddon, who has guided us through perilous seas; our brilliant set designer, Ella Maltby; our genius writer, Ray Pryce; and especially my lovely wife, Judith, whose handbag habit requires that I continue working later in life than I had intended. Oh, and to the critics here who were happy to take our bribes, stay and enjoy your free champagne. Now, I’d like you to charge your glasses to
“
“I notice we didn’t warrant a mention.” Mona Williams sniffed. “My agent told me I’d be required for the second lead, not a character part. I shall have a word with Robert about that.”
“Perhaps you should have a word with your agent,” said Neil Crofting, turning aside to talk to a spectacularly endowed young lady who was shaking herself out of a wet jacket.
The thunder rumbled, and a sharp crack of lightning turned the room into a dazzling tableau. The wall puppets stared down at the crowd with shining dead eyes. The room unfroze and glanced uneasily towards the windows. Chatter faltered. The storm had moved directly overhead.
“I haven’t seen you before.” Crofting directed his attention to the attractive girl who had just arrived. “I take it you’re not part of our disreputable production.”
“Not yet, no,” replied the girl, smiling pleasantly. “Mr Kramer hired me to start on Monday as the ASM.”
“But we already have an assistant stage manager,” said Crofting.
“She’s leaving to have a baby?” The girl looked at this pair of old actors as if she were their carer. Crofting noticed that she inflected her sentence upwards, as so many young people did these days. He vaguely recalled seeing an assistant stage manager hovering in the background, complaining about the players’ timekeeping habits, and struggled to conjure up a face. The stage manager, a hateful old haystack called Barnesly, gave the impression that he detested actors, and never socialized with them. “You know, I never even realized she was pregnant. She’s so thin. The director drives us all so hard that we never get time to eat. I’m Neil Crofting.” He held out his hand and waited for a glimmer of recognition from the girl to show that she had seen him in the BBC’s recent Sherlock Holmes series, but none came. Admittedly, it had only been a small part.
“Gail Strong.” She shook his hand and peered over his shoulder, already anxious to move on.
“Well, I daresay we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the weeks ahead – welcome aboard.” But Gail Strong had already slipped away.
“She was in a rush,” he complained to Mona. “The young always are, aren’t they?”
“Only when you talk to them,” said Mona, draining her red wine. “Don’t you think there’s an odd feeling in here tonight?”
“What do you mean?” Crofting was immune to sensitivities. In his experience, most actresses went mad after they hit fifty and started believing in all sorts of New Age rubbish.
Mona sniffed and studied the guests. “Is there any trouble among the cast that you’re aware of? Apart from the usual old bollocks, I mean.”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“There’s a bad atmosphere in the room. A kind of tension. I don’t like it.”
“Storms always put people on edge.”
“Only if you’re doing Regent’s Park open-air theatre. No, this is something else. It’s hard to explain. You truly don’t feel it?”
“No. Honestly, Mona, I don’t know why you can’t just relax and enjoy yourself like everyone else, instead of worrying about – atmospherics. Not everything has to be theatrical, you know. Shakespeare was wrong. All the world is not a stage, not really.”
As if to disprove him, an immense bellow of thunder sounded, like a tumble of boulders rolling across the roof. A woman shrieked and Mona started, but the shriek turned into a laugh.
“You must learn to accept, Neil, that some people are more sensitive than others. We all feel things differently. The older we get, the thinner the wall between life and death becomes.” Mona was suddenly serious. “I can sense when someone is about to die.”
“And you can sense that now? You can feel death in the air tonight?” Crofting looked around. “Who’s giving you this feeling? Where is it coming from?”
Mona glanced down at her shoes and shook her head. “I don’t know. Everyone’s being thoroughly ill- tempered; they’re just pretending things are fine. Robert’s over there saying hateful things about his first wife. Our writer is talking about moving to Australia where the money is apparently better. I overheard Russell complaining that he thought everyone’s performances were off this afternoon.”
“Oh, he’s just the director. Everyone ignores him.”
“I’m sorry – take no notice of me, darling. It’s been a long day. I didn’t think the matinee went especially well. Marcus was put out when that woman’s mobile went off, did you notice? He lost a whole page in the fourth scene. He doesn’t seem to care that it throws the rest of us off.”
“You know matinees never get the reaction they’re supposed to. It didn’t help to look out and see a row of critics sitting there making notes. I wonder if Robert really did try to bribe them. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Do you mind if I sit down for a minute? I’m tired and it’s hot in here.”
“Really? I was just thinking how oddly cold it was,” Crofting replied. “There’s a draught coming from somewhere.”
“Someone just walked over your grave,” said Mona, raising her glass. “Be a darling and get me another drink, would you?”
? The Memory of Blood ?
5
Ominous
The great glass lounge cast a buttery glow across the street. The Kramers’ two-storey penthouse apartment occupied a key position on Northumberland Avenue, the elegant, underused thoroughfare that extends south of Trafalgar Square towards the Embankment. The terraced floor of ground-to-ceiling glass was topped with a minstrel gallery and four en suite bedrooms. The views took in the London Eye and the Royal Festival Hall. There were few more desirable properties in central London.
Robert Julius Kramer, the host, was a self-made man who had come up with the bright idea of buying all the private car parks that had existed on former bomb sites around the city. The sites had made fortunes for their owners in the postwar years, until the city’s public transport system improved and London’s congestion charge kicked in.
Kramer realized that the old property rights were mostly still attached to these derelict open spaces and warehouses, so he applied for planning permission to erect office buildings, offsetting his costs with funding provided by city regeneration schemes. He had become a millionaire before his twenty-fifth birthday, and celebrated the occasion by informing his loyal girlfriend that he was now rich and was dumping her. That was when he added the name Julius. Now he was in his forties, and his second wife, Judith, had recently given birth to their first son.
Beneath the building’s portico, the liveried doorman glanced out at turbulent clouds and watched lightning crack the sky apart. All thirty-five of Robert Kramer’s guests had been checked against his list. No one had failed to show up, even on a night like this. From what he’d heard, they wouldn’t dare to stay away if they valued their jobs. He settled back in the doorway to await their intoxicated departures.
Up in the penthouse, Gail Strong, the new ASM, was working the other side of the room. Robert Kramer had suggested she should come along and meet everyone, but they were all wrapped up in private conversations. She
