Part 7 (1/2)

Aninka pulled a sly, yet smiling face, to show him she had his measure. Perhaps. I'm very busy,' she said.

Wendy, possibly having noticed Nick was manoeuvring for a seduction, distracted Aninka's attention. She told her how she was a picture framer and restorer, and that her husband, Ivan, had a successful antiques business, with a small gallery attached to his shop. Clearly, Wendy's tastes were very much in accord with Aninka's. She felt it necessary to apologise for not having any of Aninka's work.

Misty Kennedy appeared to have been deep in breathy conversation with Othman, but was obviously the sort of woman who kept a separate antenna tuned to every conversation in the room. I help out, you know,' she interrupted. Buying stock, especially paintings. Perhaps we could put one of yours in the gallery, dear.'

Aninka noticed that Wendy had flushed a little. Misty helps Ivan out,' she said quietly, and then to Misty, I'm sure Aninka doesn't need to try and sell her work in little shops like ours.'

I'd love to give you a print, Wendy,' Aninka said, feeling suddenly defensive for the woman. Not for the shop, for yourself. Perhaps you'd like to come and choose one. I have plenty at my flat in town.'

Wendy looked slightly surprised at the offer. That's very kind of you. I'm sure I don't deserve it.'

Aninka shook her head. Please. I'd like to.'

Wendy smiled tightly and for the briefest of moments, touched Aninka's hand. Thank you.'

After the pavlova had been cleared away and coffee had been consumed, Wendy said, I hope you'd like to attend a small ritual we'll enact shortly. It isn't a working rite, rather a theatrical ceremony.'

Aninka glanced around the room. Here? Of course, I mean, I'd love to...'

Wendy laughed. Oh, I know how we must appear to you! Our excursions into the occult are gentle and therapeutic. We have an interest in ancient cultures - as do you, of course. I like to try and recreate a feeling for the past, when life was...' She shrugged. ...I can't say less violent or more artistic, because I'm sure that's simply a glamorised view, but at least when people perhaps had more integrity, and an appreciation of life, death and the world around them. Does that make sense to you?'

Very much so,' Aninka said. If your therapeutic rituals' celebrate those things, then you must be on the right track.'

Wendy smiled in what might have been relief. Aninka realised the woman didn't want to appear shallow or stupid.

We have a temple in the garage,' she said.

Ivan Marks had converted the two car garage into a replica of a Sumerian temple, the details of which he and Wendy had gleaned from books on archaeology and children's encyclopaedias of the ancient world. Although many of the details were modern embellishments, Aninka was impressed by what she saw. The breeze blocked walls were hidden by columns and hangings. Huge bowls of incense burned in the shadows. Lights flickered in chalices of wax. Behind an altar at the back of the garage, the wall had been plaster boarded, and someone had painted, quite effectively, simplistic versions of ancient Sumerian bas-reliefs, representing some of the mythical epics: scenes from the stories of Gilgamesh and the Flood. Around the edge, zoomorphic G.o.d-forms were depicted, bestowing gifts upon the smaller figures of men and women. The atmosphere was altogether conducive to meditation and the working of magic. There were no unpleasant reverberations lingering in the air, which confirmed Wendy's claims about the gentle nature of their work. Prior to the ritual, the celebrants all disappeared into the guest rooms of the house and emerged in full costume: fringed robes, sashes and stylised wigs. Enid, it appeared, was the official seamstress of the group, and had an eye for detail. No-one suggested Aninka or Othman should get changed. They were directed to a wooden bench at the back of the temple and requested to sit quietly while the ritual was performed.

In the event, very little magic took place, as the group re-enacted the Biblical story of Nebuchadnezzar and his vizier/prophet, Daniel. Aninka realised she was spectating at a mystical play rather than a ritual. Ivan Marks, who'd written the script, had expanded upon the story, and later admitted to Aninka that he'd made the embellishments up, rather than researched them from old doc.u.ments. Othman smiled once or twice at Aninka, but made no whispered remarks. In fact, he'd seemed quite distant all evening.

Later, the group went back into the house and the wine was opened. Although the group had not fasted to work, Aninka noticed they had not touched alcohol until their ceremony was completed.

The evening ended pleasantly. Aninka gave Wendy Marks her number and told her to call soon. Nick Emmett was diverted with a vague promise. Serafina glowered as Aninka preceded Othman from the house to the car. Aninka was surprised he'd maintained such a laid-back presence, apparently content to sit back and watch the group hover around her instead. As they belted up in the car, with Wendy and Ivan standing on the threshold of the house to wave goodbye, Aninka wondered again what Othman's interest was in these people. They were nice - no other word for it - but she couldn't see how they could possibly fascinate someone like Peverel Othman, unless he was something other than he appeared.

As they drove off down Bronte Close, Aninka asked, How did you meet them?'

Othman lit a cigarette, the first he'd had all night. Through the Goth wench.'

Serafina.' Aninka noticed her own voice was sharp.

Yeah. Met her at a club.'

I can't help wondering how she got involved with them. They're all very much of a type, but for her.'

Then you must ask her,' Othman said.

They don't seem your type either,' Aninka added, ignoring his last remark.

How do you now what my type is?' he enquired.

Just a hunch.'

Othman snickered to himself. They're like a private ant colony,' he said. I love to watch them, study their group dynamics.'

How altruistic of you!'

Well, at least I'm not tempted to show off!'

Aren't you?'

No. That business about the feathered serpent! What are you on?'

Aninka slammed on the brakes. They had almost reached the dual carriageway once more. What the h.e.l.l do you mean?'

Othman gazed straight ahead. Keep driving, my dear, we're almost there.'

You're an insulting, posturing d.i.c.khead. Get out of my car.'

Othman actually looked taken aback. Oh, have we stopped playing now?'

We never started. Get out!' Aninka drummed her fingernails against the steering wheel, glaring through the windscreen. Some part of her wondered whether Othman would do something terrible now. Attack her.

I'm sorry,' he said. I didn't mean to upset you.'

She risked a glance at him. I don't know what it is we're doing, seeing each other. It's weird. You're just so snide.'

I'm too old,' he answered. I forget... sometimes. Aninka, I know you. You know me. You're right. I am Grigori.'

Aninka rolled her eyes. She felt both relieved and alarmed. Why on earth didn't you say? What has all this stupid charade been for?'

Othman smiled engagingly, putting his head on one side. I get bored easily. I wanted to keep you guessing.'

Aninka's car glided away from the kerb. The affair began that night.

Aninka could say no more than this to Enniel. The details of her love-making with Peverel Othman were private. Enniel made no comment when she abruptly ceased her narrative, other than to say, Shall we pause for the day now?'

Aninka nodded. Yes. All right.' She was sitting on the sofa, while Enniel was a distant presence behind his desk. It had been another gloomy day; night had crept down unnoticeably through a misty fusc.

Aninka stood up to stretch her legs. Enniel's office felt cold. I should have realised all was not right,' she said. I had suspicions, but I ignored them.'

He was a good lover, of course,' Enniel remarked.

When Aninka looked at him, he was staring at her without embarra.s.sment. She turned away, shrugged, realised she was hugging herself. Yes. I suppose I fell in love with him. He was infuriating sometimes, with his capricious ways, and his secretiveness, but I always felt there was some great sadness inside him.' She laughed coldly. Why is it a female always believes she can heal the soul of a grieving male? He was hiding tragedy within. I could smell it, and I wanted to draw it out.'

It pained her to remember their first kiss, in the dark of her living room. He'd grabbed her the moment the door was closed. No-one had ever kissed her like that; tenderness and force in equal measure. They had made love upon the floor. His beauty had been like a scorching flame, and his gentleness had made her cry with pleasure and a wistful melancholy. The memory was too sweet, and therefore agonising to recall. She knew she would never experience any of that again, and it was hard to carry on living, knowing that. Even now, the act of recollection brought tears to her eyes.