Michael Dibdin - The Dying of the Light

This time it was Samuel Rosenstein who started it. His name was actually Rossiter, but Rosemary and Dorothy had needed a Jew to complete their cast of suspects.

‘Hello? ‘Hello?’ he shouted into the telephone. ‘Operator? Connect me to the police immediately!’

Next Jack Weatherby chipped in with a few stray phrases from the news bulletins he had once read on the BBC World Service.

‘…on the clear understanding that the respect of such demagogues can only be won by a show of force, thus enabling any eventual negotiations to proceed from a position of…’

‘…turned my back for a single instant,’ cried Grace Lebon, whose real name was Higginbottom or something equally unthinkable, ‘to look at something which had caught my eye in a shop window, and when I looked round again the pram was empty!’

‘…can’t say when I’ve enjoyed myself so much,’ broke out Purvey, a retired accountant who had no more connection with the Church than Weatherby with the Army. ‘Unfortunately the last train seems to have gone, so if it wouldn’t inconvenience you too terribly I wonder if…’

This brought Belinda Scott to her feet.

‘We’ve got to take under our wings, tra-la!’ she bawled at the top of her voice. ‘These perfectly loathsome old things, tra-la!’

As the tumult rose about her, Rosemary gave a panicky glance at the clock, which of course still stood at ten past four. How long had Dorothy been gone? Rosemary had said she would wait for her, but how long would that be? Would she return at all? They might already have dragged her off to hospital, trussed and gagged on a stretcher like Channing on his bed.

As the realisation of what her friend’s absence was going to mean came home to Rosemary for the first time, she felt her control begin to slip away. For years now they had been at each other’s side night and day. It was always Rosemary who had taken the initiative. It was she who introduced new twists and turns in the story which they had elaborated together, she who kept all the strands of the plot in play while still managing to accommodate-and thus to some extent control-the real horrors which surrounded them.

In contrast, Dorothy’s had been the subordinate role.

Her task had been to fill in the gaps which Rosemary left blank for her, to spot the errors which Rosemary had deliberately planted for just that reason, to approve and criticise, suggest and reject. Thus when Rosemary had allowed herself to consider the possibility of Dorothy being sent away to hospital, she had seen it in terms of her friend being cut off from her, and hence from the source of the comforting narrative which had sustained them both for so long. Now she was forced to acknowledge that her own position would be little better, in that respect at least.

The stories were a collaboration, she realised now, and although Rosemary had always been the dominant partner she could no more keep them going by herself than one player, however brilliant, could have a game of tennis with no one on the other side of the net. A sense of panic gripped her at the thought of her coming isolation, of the fear and uncertainty and loneliness she was going to have to endure, night and day, without respite or relief. She would end like the others, just another voice in that chorus of manic despair.

She felt someone touch her arm and looked round to find Mrs Hargreaves gazing down at her with an expression of concern. Hargreaves was in fact the woman’s real name, although Rosemary had tacked on the ‘Hiram’ and III’ to make her sound more like a rich American widow. By now she had grown so accustomed to thinking of Mrs Hargreaves as a petulant, cold, selfish hypochondriac that she was initially shocked rather than comforted to hear her say kindly, ‘You look just about at the end of your feathers, Miss Travis.’

Tm fine!’ Rosemary rapped back in a manner which challenged the woman to deny it.

‘You’re sure there’s nothing I can do you for?’

‘I can manage perfectly well on my own, thank you,’ Rosemary shouted, only to find that the tumult of competing voices had died away. To make amends for her rather aggressive tone, she added, ‘I felt a bit giddy for a moment, but it’s passed.’

‘I’ll just come and sit with you until she gets back,’ said the woman, taking Dorothy’s place.

“There’s no call for that, Mrs Hargreaves. I’ll be quite all right now.’

‘Call me Mavis.’

Rosemary, who had no intention of ever calling anyone Mavis if such a thing could possibly be avoided, smiled remotely.

‘Terribly kind of you, I’m sure, but…’

‘Two hands are better than one, I always say.’

Rosemary’s smile became still more distant.

‘You and Mrs D,’ ventured the other woman cautiously, ‘you’re very… very close, aren’t you?

Sitting in Dorothy’s chair, Mrs Hargreaves had her back to the window. In the gathering darkness, it was impossible to make out the expression on her face.

‘We’re friends,’ said Rosemary.

‘Oh I didn’t mean there was anything, well, you know…’

Rosemary kept silent.

‘Not that I’d mind one way or the other,’ Mrs Hargreaves went on breezily. ‘I used to be quite partial to a touch myself at one time.’

Rosemary decided it was time to regain the initiative.

‘I gather that Mr Anderson is endeavouring to persuade you to alienate your estate in his favour, Mrs Hargreaves.’

‘Mavis.’

There was a silence.

‘Mavis,’ Rosemary conceded.

‘Now then, what was that about Mr A?’

‘I just said that it sounds as if he’s trying to get his hands on your money,’ said Rosemary.

Mavis Hargreaves giggled.

‘Well, you know men.’

‘I shouldn’t take anything for granted.’

‘Oh I didn’t mean you, dear! I wouldn’t dream of…’

‘Anything Mr Anderson may say, I mean,’ Rosemary explained stiffly.

‘Don’t you worry about that! I wouldn’t trust our Mr A as far as I could kick him out of bed.’

‘After all, Hilary Bryant made her money over to him shortly before she died, and much good we saw of it.’

Mavis Hargreaves nodded.

‘Keep them chasing the carrot at the end of the rainbow, that’s what I always say.’

She placed a plump white finger on Rosemary’s knee, which instantly twitched aside.

‘It’s your friend you should be worried about, by the sound of it.’

Rosemary bit her lip.

‘I’ m sure there’s no truth in that.’

‘Mr A seems to think there is.’

‘What does it matter what he thinks?’ demanded Rosemary shortly.

There was a creak of hinges at the far end of the room, then Dorothy’s voice.

‘Rose?’

She was on her feet in a moment.

‘Coming, Dot!’

The room was in almost complete darkness by now. Rosemary made her way slowly towards the door, her one thought to help her friend face up to the terrible news which had just been broken to her, and very likely in the most casually brutal fashion. She must get Dorothy out of there, she thought, away from the inquisitive Mrs Hargreaves and all the others, up to her room, where she could go to pieces without making a spectacle of herself.

‘I can’t find the light switch,’ Dorothy called faintly from somewhere near by.

‘Never mind, I’m nearly there.’

A few moments later they were in each other’s arms, and Rosemary had guided her friend to the sofa beside the door. They sat in silence for some time, holding hands.

‘I know, Dot,’ Rosemary said at last.

‘The news, you mean?’

Dorothy’s face was just a blur, but her voice sounded strangely calm. Rosemary nodded, then realised that she was invisible too.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When I was upstairs, I overheard Dr Morel talking to…’