He had taken her that particular day to see My Fair Lady at the local cinema. They ate after the show and went back to her flat. It was a Saturday and he was staying with her for the weekend. She went to her bedroom to change and came back in his bath-robe. A well-worn white towelling bath-robe that hung on her like a shroud, and she smiled as she sat down beside him. He poured them both a whisky and reached forward to switch on the TV.
On the screen a man and a woman were walking slowly together across a ramshackle courtyard. Randall leaned forward, turned up the sound and leaned back.
“I came here to find my husband. The one who was reported killed,” the woman said.
“Strelnikov. I met him.”
“Met him.” She looked disbelieving.
“Yes.”
The woman looked away from the man and they walked slowly forward together. And then came the gentle loving music. Strings and balalaikas, and “Lara’s Theme” from Zhivago. He watched as they sat on a bench under a tree, and leaves scattered before the wind across the pathway. He reached out to find Debbie’s hand, still looking at the screen. His hand touched her leg, and he felt its coldness before he turned to look at her.
She was trembling as if she had an ague, her mouth gasping for breath, her eyes wide with fear.
“What is it, Debbie? What’s the matter?”
She shook her head.
“Let me call a doctor.”
And then she screamed. “No. No. No.”
And the scream seemed to release the tension. She bowed her head, her hands to her face, his arm around her. Then slowly she lifted her head and said, “Switch it off. Please.”
“Switch what off?”
“The TV.”
He leaned forward and switched off the set and moved back beside her on the settee. He took her hand, holding it gently in both of his. For a long time he just sat there, holding her hand without speaking, until she eventually turned her face to look at him. “I’m sorry, Steve. I was stupid.”
“Tell me. What was the matter?”
She sighed a deep, deep sigh. “I don’t really know.”
“Did you feel ill?”
“No. I was just frightened.”
“Frightened of what?”
She kissed him gently. “Take me to bed and love me.”
He shook his head. “I want to know what frightened you.”
“It was a kind of dream.”
“What was it about?”
“I’m not sure. It was just like … I don’t know how to explain … like a few seconds in a film that shouldn’t be there … a bit that’s nothing to do with the film.”
“What did you see?”
“A row of houses. Old-fashioned houses. And a man at an open door. There was a red hole over his nose, between his eyes.”
“Go on.”
“He fell down. Somebody had shot him.”
“Was it someone you know?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. And yet I did.”
“And that was all of it?”
“Yes.”
“What particular bit frightened you?”
“It was me who shot him.”
He smiled at her and kissed her cheek. “That shows it was only a dream.”
“But I wasn’t asleep.”
“It could be a day-dream.”
She turned and looked at him. “It wasn’t, Steve. Why should I day-dream about killing a man I don’t know?”
“Maybe he’s someone from way-back. Someone your conscious mind has long forgotten.”
She shook her head. “It was real, Steve. It happened.”
“Now that’s being silly, sweetie. Pretty girls don’t go around shooting men they don’t know. What did he look like?”
“Big, red-faced. Like a farmer or someone who spends all his time out of doors.”
“What were you thinking about before this day-dream?”
“I was trying to think who the girl was in the film they made of Oklahoma!”
“Gloria Grahame.” He smiled. “Let’s tuck you up in bed so that you can have a good night’s sleep.”
He helped her to bed, plumped up the soft pillows for her head, switched out the main light so that only the shaded light from the bedside lamp was on her face. “I’m going to get you a nice warm drink.”
He came back five minutes later with a tall glass on a tray. “Here you are, sweetheart. Hot chocolate as made by the Waldorf Astoria, New York. The best in the world.”
She smiled and took the glass, blowing on the creamy foam that covered the top of it. She drank half of it and put the glass back on the bedside table.
“That was lovely, Steve. Do you want to make love?”
“Of course I do. But we’re not going to. I want you to rest and relax.”
He saw her heavy eyelids close and he said, “Good girl. Just relax.” And his long fingers gently stroked her brow. “Try and sleep.”
She said very softly, “I sometimes wonder what’s in your letters and packages.”
“What letters?”
“The ones I take for you.”
“I don’t understand, Debbie.”
“I’m not Debbie. I’m Nancy. You’ve forgotten.” She laughed softly. “What’s your real name? It’s not really Joe Spellman, is it?”
“Are you asleep? Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can. Your voice sounds …”
She cried out, opening her eyes. “Where am I? Where am I? I’m frightened.” She was looking around the room as if she had never seen it before and then she pulled aside the bedcovers and swung her legs to the floor.
He said very quietly, “Lie back, sweetie. Lie back and rest.” And he did the first part of his act, passing his hand across her face, touching her forehead gently with
