Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

He had supposed the physical satisfaction with a man would, in the end, be much the same as it was with a woman. What he had not expected – what he did not think he could have achieved with any woman – was the extraordinary mental fusion that took place. He had no idea if this was simply that two masculine bodies were experiencing the same sensations and were both aware of the other’s emotions, or if it was because he and Gil had some affinity that went beyond the physical.

And now, almost two years later, he sat at the narrow, grimed window, staring out at the grey morning and tried to think how they would arrange their lives, he and Gil, when this war was over and they were back in England. He could not imagine how they could live, but he could not imagine a world without Gil. He could not, however, really visualize any world other than this grey half-world.

He was about to say he would try to get two mugs of tea to bring back, and that with luck there might be some hot food as well, when a burst of sound from the east reached him.

‘They’re shelling again,’ said Gil, scrambling out of bed and reaching for his clothes to dress with the careless haste that was now part of life. ‘You’d think they’d let up for a couple of hours at least, wouldn’t you? I think it’s back to the main post for me,’ he said.

‘I’d better come with you,’ said Crispian, abandoning all thoughts of breakfast. As Gil opened the door, he said, ‘We may as well go together.’

Serena was in the drawing room at Cadence Manor when the telegram arrived – the hateful orange envelope that everyone in England feared to receive. She nodded to Flagg to leave her, knowing he would probably wait for news in the hall anyway.

Yes, there it was, as damning and as final as words could be.

‘Deeply regret inform you Crispian Cadence killed on the field of battle… Extreme bravery, despite being non-combatant… Outright shot to head, no suffering… Sincerest condolences…’

After what felt like a very long time, Serena became aware of the telephone ringing, and then of Flagg’s voice saying it was Dr Martlet, and would her ladyship speak to him. He would switch it through to her, if so. Serena hated the telephone and it was extremely unreliable anyway. But she said yes, she would speak to him.

Dr Martlet’s voice said, ‘Lady Cadence? I think you’ve had a telegram?’

‘Yes.’

‘Crispian.’

It was not quite a question, but Serena said, ‘Yes. Crispian’s gone. I don’t know why one uses that word, except it seems less harsh…’ She paused, because to use the word dead about Crispian, who had been so alive, so bright and good and so very strong, might bring the deep and dreadful grief welling up from her heart. She remembered how he had written that his billet was not very well lit, and how Mrs Flagg, loyal to her finger-bones, had vowed they would light all the lamps for him when he came home. They would never light them now because Crispian would never come home.

Gillespie Martlet said, ‘Gil’s dead as well.’

‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry.’ The words came out colourlessly, but in Serena’s mind was the vivid glowing image of the two young men who had gone out to France, both of them so very brave, despite what people had thought and said of them.

‘They were both killed while carrying the wounded away from the battlefield near the Somme, seemingly,’ said Dr Martlet. ‘And from the date and time, it seems they went together.’

The Present

Veronica’s day had started off looking a bit dreary – nothing much to do, no dear old Clem to phone for a gossipy chat, no shopping trip or lunch planned. Then, out of the blue, the phone rang and the voice that by now sent little thrills of delight all over her said, ‘Berenice? Are you by any chance free this evening?’

That was like him, flattering her by assuming she had a frantic social life, implying he did not really think someone like her could be free at such short notice.

Veronica pretended to consult a diary. ‘I am, as it happens,’ she said. ‘What exactly had you in mind?’

‘I thought I might look in for a drink,’ he said. ‘Would that be all right?’

Would it be all right? But it was never a good idea to seem too eager, so Veronica said, ‘Yes, do call. That would be nice.’

‘Half seven? I’ll see you then,’ he said, and rang off. He never spent much time on the phone.

He arrived punctually as always. He had told her once that punctuality was the politeness of kings. He said it was believed to be a phrase coined by a French king. This was one of the things Veronica found so entrancing: he was widely read and so cultured. She was toying with the idea of taking some kind of evening class so she could match him. It would make for an evening out and she could buy some smart dark suits to wear to the classes.

He complimented Veronica’s new hairstyle; she had been able to get a last-minute appointment at the local salon after he phoned and had had blonde highlights put in, so she was pleased he noticed. She waited, hopefully, to see how the evening would unfold and by way of opening the subject, asked how long he would be staying.

‘All evening, if you can put up with me.’

‘I think I can manage that.’ They smiled at one another. It was wonderful how much in accord they were. Veronica said, ‘And the entertainment? Did you have something in mind?’

He smiled, and his whole face lightened. ‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to telling you about that.’

Veronica sighed with pleasure and leaned back against the sofa, stretching her legs sensuously. She was wearing expensive black stockings with killer heels. The heels were crippling to walk in but they looked really good, so it was a pity not to show them off a bit.

The entertainment was to be another of their role-playing games. He was endlessly inventive. She marvelled at how inventive he was. He ought to write a book or something. He had laughed when she had said that once.

Tonight he was going to be a house-burglar. Not the rough kind, of course. Not like an inarticulate teenager, high on drugs, smashing a window to get in and grab the DVD-player or the stereo. He would be the old-fashioned kind: the gentlemanly cat burglar – Raffles, perhaps, or Arsène Lupin or even a swashbuckling Scarlet Pimpernel.

‘Slinking into the house under cover of darkness,’ he said, watching Veronica. ‘Initially after the jewels owned by the lady of the house.’

‘But ending up in the bed of the lady of the house?’ said Veronica, and was delighted when he smiled approvingly.

‘You clever girl, Berenice,’ he said. ‘You have no idea what a delight it is to talk to someone who understands so instinctively. So many ladies don’t. But you’re different, aren’t you? That’s exactly what I had in mind. Let’s see, it’s ten to eight. How about if I stroll down to the wine shop on the corner and collect a nice bottle of something for our sophisticated burglar to enjoy later?’ He stood up. ‘When he gets back he might find the front door is on the latch so it would be easy for him to get in. He’d come in really quietly, but once he is in he might get all kinds of surprises, mightn’t he? Perhaps even a welcome he hasn’t bargained for?’

‘Oh, yes !’ said Veronica gleefully.

It meant another of the frantic scrambles around the bedroom while he was gone, setting the scene. She could never prepare ahead because she simply had no idea what he would want, but tonight was fairly easy. She pulled on an ivory silk nightgown he had not seen before and thrust the discarded clothes hastily into the wardrobe. A quick dab of scent, then she turned down the lights leaving only a faint glimmer from the bedside lamp. At this time of year it was not absolutely dark at eight o’clock, but it was dark enough to warrant lights and half-drawn curtains. She got into bed to wait for his return.