I returned – as I knew I would. There was an indissoluble link between me and Darkwood so that it was inevitable that I would visit the old place again. I just had to. After all it was where the most pivotal event in my life occurred.
And this was my anniversary.
I was drawn back on that misty May evening and stood in the fading light beneath the row of beech trees that skirted the lawn and gazed at the coloured lanterns strung around the patio area and the lights blazing from all the downstairs windows. I caught sounds of a jazz band floating out of the house on the gentle breeze. Some of the guests were dancing outside, filled with merriment and champagne.
The party was in full swing.
Gerald held the party at Darkwood to celebrate his birthday every year. It was always an extravagant affair. I had fond memories of the times I had been present in the past: the noise, the laughter, the sheer exuberance of it all. For a brief moment I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia, but I gently pushed these memories aside. They were worthless now.
I left the shadow of the trees and wandered across the lawn on to the patio. The giddy dancing guests took no notice of me. I slipped through the French windows and into the large hall where a quartet of musicians was playing. The area was full of people. Some were dancing, but most were just standing around in groups, drinks in hand, chatting merrily. Jokes were being made, secrets shared and gossip gathered.
Then I saw Gerald. He was leaning against a pillar, his arms around a pretty young girl. His face was pale and damp with sweat and his smile, as usual in these circumstances, was not quite convincing. However, it didn’t surprise me that this slip of a thing seemed completely enraptured by him. The old Gerald Hamilton charm. I knew all about that. Smooth, hypnotic, enticing and cold as ice. No doubt he was telling her that she was the love of his life.
I watched them for a while. Watched until he leered forward and kissed the girl on the lips. She responded with enthusiasm.
The fool, I thought.
I moved around the edge of the room towards the staircase, hoping that Gerald would not see me. But there was little danger of that happening. His attention was focused solely on the girl. I knew that obsessive mind of his. I had been the object of it once upon a time.
I slipped upstairs unseen and made my way to Gerald’s bedroom, his passion suite as he used to refer to it. The term amused me then. But not now. The room was very much as I remembered it. The décor had not changed, not even the carpet. Well, it was only a year. The sheets were rumpled and an empty bottle of champagne rested in a silver bucket by the side of the bed. Lovemaking had taken place here earlier this evening. The flighty piece downstairs, no doubt, the one who hung on his every word and gesture. The old Gerald magic. He’d send her off on a cloud of romance into the night and she’d never realise how she had been used.
I sat in a chair opposite the bed for quite some time, somewhat mesmerised by the unnaturally faded patch on the carpet near the bed. Eventually, I opened the French windows and stepped out on to the balcony, which overlooked the gravel drive. Some of the guests were leaving. Expensive motors revved their engines and headlights pierced the dark as, like will o’ the wisps, they made their erratic way down the winding tree-lined drive.
Another hour, I thought, and he’ll be left in the house alone. Alone that is apart from me.
It was around two in the morning when Darkwood fell silent. All guests, musicians, flunkeys and lovers had gone. I had Gerald to myself at last. I waited in the deep shadows by the curtain. I could hear his uncertain footsteps approaching the bedroom. Gerald never got really drunk, but he was often tipsy. He entered. He was rather dishevelled: his bow tie was crooked, one flap of his shirt hung down over the front of his trousers and his hair was in disarray. He was humming to himself. It was a happy little tune. He sat on the bed to take his shoes off.
I moved forward into the pool of light created by the moonbeams spilling into the room. So concentrated was he in removing his recalcitrant shoes that he didn’t notice me.
‘Hello, Gerald,’ I said softly, moving to the left of him.
He looked up, surprised to hear a voice in the room and swivelled his head anxiously to discover its owner. Then he saw me. His eyes bulged and his jaw dropped.
‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ I purred.
He rose to his feet like a man who has just learned to walk and staggered backwards in some distress towards the French windows.
‘It is our anniversary, after all, Gerald,’ I said. ‘It’s been a year.’
His mouth opened and closed, his teeth champing noisily, but he spoke no words.
‘Yes, a whole year,’ I continued. ‘A whole year since you shot me. Murdered me in cold blood. And talking of blood, I see that you managed to clean up the stain quite well. There’s not a trace of red there now.’ I pointed at the faded patch on the carpet.
Gerald clamped his hands to side of his face and shook his head. ‘I must be dreaming,’ he gabbled, as he stumbled backwards on to the balcony.
I approached him, smiling. ‘No dream, Gerald. This is all happening. Happy anniversary.’
‘Keep … keep away,’ he moaned, his back now against the parapet.
‘That’s no way to talk to the woman you called the love of your life, is it Gerald? I am the love of your life, aren’t I?’
It amused me to see that he had no idea how to answer that question.
‘Give me a kiss for old times’ sake?’ I murmured, moving very close to him. I was close enough to smell the fear. I caressed his face with my hand.
He gave a scream of terror, leaning away from me until he lost his balance. With a pleasing inevitability he slipped over the edge of the parapet. His arms and legs flailing, he fell to the drive below and his head smashed like an eggshell on contact with the hard surface. Blood oozed out on to the gravel. I looked down and wondered how difficult it would be to remove that stain.