Sculby was having a dream.
On this, the first occasion, the details of the dream were unclear, although it was destined to recur, night after night, until at last everything was plain.
Sculby knew he was in Russia, in the middle of Red Square, exposed and alone. All around him men were marching, rank upon rank of goose-stepping soldiers, passing before him from right to left, from left to right, sometimes away from him, at others towards him. A great ceremonial occasion, May Day perhaps. The sun was shining brightly, throwing the scene into sharp relief, but it was very cold in Red Square, cold enough to make the cheeks burn.
A solitary figure detached itself from the marching men. An officer, identifiable by his drawn sword. He began to cross Sculby’s field of vision from right to left, the white blade swinging in the crook of his arm. Details started to emerge: highly polished cavalry boots, an immaculate uniform… suddenly the officer executed a left turn towards Sculby, who looked for his face and found only shadow cast by the officer’s stiff, peaked cap. He came closer; soon Sculby would be able to see clearly, and he knew he would recognise this man as someone he had known for many years past, someone he was anxious to avoid, an enemy. Sculby wanted to run and found he couldn’t move a muscle, not even to raise a hand against the oncoming threat. But when the officer was only a few feet away and the shadow cast by his cap was starting to lift, all the bells of the Cathedral suddenly tolled so that Sculby looked away, startled…
Sculby picked up the alarm dock and threw it across the room. It went on ringing. He staggered out of bed, cursing his failure to switch it off first. His head was throbbing: too much Chianti the night before. A heavy grey feeling of dread, its source as yet unidentifiable, pervaded the flat.
Sculby sat down by the window and put his head in his hands.
The night before, he had arranged to take Judy out to dinner in an attempt at reconciliation. But the Registrar of the Haywards Heath County Court sat after hours at Sculby’s request, so he was late at the restaurant, and thereafter the evening went from bad to worse. The double bed remained in single occupation.
Sculby picked up the newspaper from the mat and inspected his post. Recognising his mother’s handwriting he made a face and thrust the letter, still unopened, into the pocket of his dressing-gown.
Well why don’t you go to see them more often? he asked his face in the shaving-mirror. Is that such an unreasonable question to ask? His mother was fond of underlining key words.
Then Sculby remembered why the day was bleak. He had an appointment to see Vera Bradfield at 9.30.
She went to the front door with the solicitor’s letter in her hand, as if that short, courteously phrased missive could somehow guarantee protection from the hand that had written it.
‘Miss Bradfield?’
‘Mr Sculby?’
They spoke simultaneously and smiled the same half-rueful, half-resentful smile.
‘Come in.’
She decided not to turn her back but stood aside to let him pass, recoiling a little. She did not much like Mr Sculby, with his pebble-lensed glasses and cynical mouth. There seemed to be a lot of him in her tiny hallway: obviously the kind of man who liked to fill all the available space.
‘In here?’
‘No.’
She had to reach across Sculby to pull shut the door of the spare bedroom, recognising in him the sort of person who deliberately chooses the wrong room in order to make his presence felt. Something in the way he refused to budge while she dealt with the door suggested that the mistake was her fault.
‘I’m very busy this morning. In here, please…’
She ushered him into the workroom and pointed to the typewriter.
‘…I’ve got a deadline to meet. For a manuscript. Can you make it fast?’
She had been looking forward to his visit. It should have made an interesting break in an otherwise dull routine. But already she wanted him to go.
Sculby took a notebook out of his briefcase and opened it at a blank page. He looked everywhere but at what he was supposed to be doing. Vera sat down at the typewriter, keeping the wooden screen of the table between her and the lawyer’s roving eyes.
‘You must think this is very odd, Miss Bradfield. I’m most grateful to you for agreeing to see me at all.’
He had a nice voice; she conceded that. But he wasn’t really grateful.
‘One of my clients is a Mr Victor Loshkevoi. Does that name mean anything to you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve been racking my brains ever since I got your letter, Mr Sculby, but I’ve never met anyone of that name.’
For a while he said nothing but merely looked at her, so that she was reminded of the Social Security inspector who called to see if she was living with a man. She pushed the memory hastily away.
‘It means nothing to me. Really.’
After another short pause Sculby began to tell her about Loshkevoi, keeping to the truth as far as possible and trying to make it sound convincing. Vera’s attention wandered; it didn’t seem a very interesting story that he was telling her. She decided that Sculby was unlikely to be married: any woman worth her salt would have tried to do something about the ragged tie, grimy cuffs, and unkempt, overlong hair. But perhaps he had a wife, and she was meek and ineffectual? It seemed improbable. His type nearly always married a forceful, strong-willed woman and then proceeded to row with her in public. Vera knew. She had seen such men often, even gone out with one or two.
‘So there it is, Miss Bradfleld…’
Suddenly she wished he wouldn’t call her that, and knew it was time to get rid of him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said abruptly. ‘You’ve been wasting your time. I can’t imagine where your client picked up my name. I do freelance typing work and I advertise in the South London Press, he may have seen it there. But apart from that, I can’t help you. And quite frankly, I think you should confine your inquiries to him.’
Sculby smiled and put away his notebook. He seemed as relieved as she was that the interview was over, and not at all disappointed at the outcome. She rose to her feet with him and waited while he placed his briefcase on the table in order to close it properly. The latch seemed to be sticking.
‘Well, goodbye then. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.’
Now he really was sorry, she decided. In the hall he looked around.
‘Nice flat you’ve got. Best part of Clapham, this. Quiet.’
‘I think so.’
‘It makes a difference having the other room. I do a lot of conveyancing, you know. Space. That’s what people want these days.’
‘It’s too much for me, really. I never have anyone to stay…’
Vera checked herself. Careful.
He walked to his car and she watched at the front door until he had driven away. As she closed the door she noticed that the same man who had been there yesterday was sitting in a car opposite, reading a newspaper. Was it really the same man? The car was different, surely… Vera hesitated. Could it be burglars, seeing who lived where and what was worth taking? You read a lot about that kind of thing these days…
She sat down at the typewriter and rattled a sheet of paper into the carriage with unnecessary violence. ‘Honestly, Vera,’ she said to herself. ‘You’ll be seeing Reds under the bed next.’