Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

There were aspects of Marlena’s past life that would cause her a great deal of trouble were they ever to become known. But Marlena had almost forgotten that. It was all so far behind her that she had allowed herself to believe she’d got away scot-free. At her somewhat substantial age — she had taught herself to forget the precise figure — Marlena had finally found a kind of peace. Or as much peace as a woman like her could ever achieve.

But that peace had been disturbed by the series of incidents involving three members — possibly four, if you counted Karen as well as Greg — of the little group whose company she so enjoyed. It particularly disturbed her that the ‘joker’ responsible had yet to own up, leading to an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion among the friends.

She wasn’t exactly fearful. The incidents had been fairly trivial, after all. And while she was concerned that she might be the joker’s next target, she didn’t believe there was anything they could do that would cause a real upset in her life. She was too careful for that. These days, people thought of her as an eccentric old woman. Her past was far behind her now and buried so deep no one would ever suspect.

Even so, Marlena couldn’t stop feeling anxious.

She pulled her mink cape more tightly around her shoulders. The weather had turned cold again. As she touched the soft fur she was reminded of the only time she had felt in real danger since she’d moved to Covent Garden.

It had been some time ago, during a period of anti-fur protests. Marlena had been walking past the rear entrance of the Theatre Royal when a group of protesters, no doubt waiting for a fur-clad celebrity to emerge from the stage door, had spotted her. She’d been wearing an arctic fox wrap.

The protestors had rushed to surround her, and began pushing her, yelling insults.

‘Fucking murderer!’ they cried. ‘Vicious bitch!’ And more.

Then one of them had emptied the contents of a tin of red paint over her. And her white fur wrap.

Marlena had been stronger then, but in the face of their fury she’d been helpless. She could only cower beneath the overwhelming force of it.

Passers-by had crossed the street, pretending not to notice. Two stagehands having a smoke outside the stage door had ducked their heads to avoid glancing in her direction. Nobody wanted to mess with the angry mob attacking her.

Eventually the protestors had grown tired of Marlena and returned to their stake-out. She had hurried home, reeking of paint, tear stains streaking her face, and on the way dumped the irretrievably damaged fur in a municipal bin.

Marlena still winced at the memory. At least you could wear a fur in London again nowadays, she thought. Assuming you had the nerve. Although some people made their disapproval clear enough, the violence had stopped. And surely she had nothing else to worry about? Not really. She remained in charge of her own destiny, didn’t she?

She passed through Seven Dials, made her way up Earlham Street, and came to a halt at Cambridge Circus, opposite the Palace Theatre. This was the point where Soho met Covent Garden in a tangle of merging, intertwining traffic lanes, and the morning rush hour was still going strong. Not that there really was a proper rush hour any more, Marlena reflected. Since the congestion charge had been introduced in 2000 it seemed that the traffic remained heavy all the time.

Momentarily, however, there was a tempting lull. Once upon a time Marlena would have diced with death and dashed across, but those days were over. Instead she waited — albeit impatiently, her nature not having changed with age, as it rarely does — for the little green man to appear on the traffic light opposite. Only then did she step into the street. And, although she was on red alert, half expecting something like it to happen, she was taken quite by surprise when it did.

He was upon her almost immediately. A grey, hoody-clad figure on a bicycle. His head was down. He was pedalling hard and did not appear to even glance up at the road ahead. Marlena saw him at the last moment — if indeed it was a him — and tried to take a step back out of the way. But such was her shock, it was as if she were rooted to the spot. In any case, she could have sworn the cyclist swerved towards her when she tried to move. The bicycle slammed into her side and pushed her in the direction of the stream of oncoming traffic. Its rider did not at any point appear to slow down, nor indeed give any indication that he was even aware of what was happening. He just kept pedalling, occasionally lowering a foot to the ground in order to maintain his balance.

Something caught in Marlena’s clothing. Or was the cyclist holding on to her? Surely not. But it felt that way. She was dragged several yards along the street, then discarded. Or that’s what it seemed like, anyway. And as she fell, full length right across the road, she watched the cyclist pedalling off down Shaftesbury Avenue without a backward glance.

Marlena’s head was spinning and she realized she’d hit it quite hard. Then she saw the bus coming towards her. It seemed to be travelling at enormous speed, far faster, certainly, than the disappearing bicycle. In a split second the big red double-decker loomed right above her inert form. And from the expression on the driver’s face, he had no hope whatsoever of avoiding her.

Marlena steeled herself for the impact. And for what she thought would probably be the final moments of her life.

They told her in A&E at University College Hospital just how fortunate she had been. She’d fallen in such a way that only her right foot actually lay directly in the path of the bus. Her head had dropped safely away from the oncoming vehicle. Or more or less safely. She’d given it such a crack on the edge of the pavement that she still had concussion, which was why they were keeping her in overnight. That and the state of her foot. It hadn’t just been broken but thoroughly crushed by the weight of the bus.

She’d been lucky, they told her. Marlena tried hard to believe that as she struggled to make herself comfortable in her hospital bed. Her foot throbbed for England, her head ached, and her thoughts remained muddled.

It must indeed be considered lucky that she had fallen the way she had. The bus would certainly have killed her, had her head ended up under one of those enormous wheels. And Marlena was not ready to die yet. But neither did she want to live as a cripple. She was a proud and independent woman, born in the days before political correctness, when if you couldn’t walk you were a cripple. And Marlena couldn’t help wondering if she would ever walk again. The doctors had already told her there wasn’t a lot they could do for her foot except wait for it to heal. And at her age, that sort of injury might never heal properly.

It was her toes which had borne the brunt of the pressure, and apparently you couldn’t set crushed toes in plaster. Instead they were loosely taped beneath a dressing. Every time a nerve twitched, the pain was so excruciating Marlena practically jumped out of her skin. She lay with her eyes tightly closed, willing the agony to ebb away. Marlena believed in the power of the mind. Perhaps she could turn the whole dreadful incident into a nightmare from which she would soon wake.

A voice cut through the pain.

‘How are you, Marlena darling? I just wanted to make sure you were all right before I leave.’

It was a familiar voice. Marlena opened her eyes and struggled to focus on the speaker. Nothing about her body was working properly. Even her vision seemed blurred.

‘They said I could have five minutes,’ the voice continued.

Marlena lifted her head from the pillows and blinked.

‘Alfonso?’ she queried.